


knight of the dreadfort (the ballad of the red king)

by ladyoflosgar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Sacrifice, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtly Love, Crusade against Rh'llor, Dark, Domeric Bolton Lives, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Intrusive Thoughts, Jealousy, Leeching, Murder Fantasies, Negative Self Talk, Period-Typical Sexism, Psychological Torture, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Religion, Roose Bolton is His Own Warning, Sexual Content, The Faith of the Seven, The Old Gods - Freeform, Torture, War, Westerosi Politics, happy ending planned, identity crisis, reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2020-10-24 21:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 49
Words: 227,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoflosgar/pseuds/ladyoflosgar
Summary: Frustrated with the War of the Five Kings, Domeric Bolton deserts the Northern army and rescues Sansa Stark from King’s Landing.Part war story, part chivalric romance, part tragic irony, major Cerebus Syndrome. A look at the weight of curses and at Roose Bolton as a husband and a father. A darkfic with a light at the end of the tunnel, partly inspired by Dante Alighieri’s La Vita Nuova.This mostly follows book canon until midway through ASOS, but I have used the ages from the show. Fun fact, if you play the Game of Thrones CK2 mod and start at Robert’s Rebellion, take a look at Roose’s court and you’ll find Domeric, a poet from the tender age of four.Next update November 5th/6th.





	1. Domeric I

**Author's Note:**

> So gentle and so pure appears  
my lady when she greets others,  
that every tongue trembles and is mute,  
and their eyes do not dare gaze at her.  
She goes by, aware of their praise,  
benignly dressed in humility:  
and seems as if she were a thing come  
from Heaven to Earth to show a miracle.  
She shows herself so pleasing to those who gaze,  
through the eyes she sends a sweetness to the heart,  
that no one can understand who does not know it:  
and from her lips there comes a sweet spirit full of love,  
that goes saying to the soul: 'Sigh.'
> 
> \- Dante Alighieri, 'So gentle and so pure appears', La Vita Nuova

_My son. Robb Stark is calling the banners. You are needed. Come to Moat Cailin posthaste. Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort._

The raven arrived at the Redfort barely a fortnight into his visit, his first since he’d earned his spurs nearing on two years past. There was no real business he had at the Redfort, but living at home at the Dreadfort he was going stir crazy for someone to ride with, someone to talk to, someone – _anyone – _who wasn’t his father Roose or a cowed, tongueless servant.

When he’d first returned home, he’d thought to go ride up the Weeping Water to meet the Bastard, despite his father’s advice. Winterfell had a bastard. Hornwood had a bastard. He’d met them both, and by his lights they’d seemed agreeable fellows. Along the way he thought to call on Old Lord Overton’s holdfast at the base of the Lonely Hills. Old Lord Overton had clapped him on the back, sighed and disabused him of the notion that Ramsay Snow was any sort of an agreeable fellow. _Lad, _he’d began in his rough way, _I like you lad. In fact, I’m more than passing fond of ye. Trust yer father on this one_. Then Old Lord Overton shook his head and whispered in his ear about hunting horns and smallfolk girls disappearing in the dawn, of blood found against tree trunks, barking hounds and a scheming stinking servant and a bitter, jealous miller’s wife.

Domeric had never met the Bastard. Now he hoped he never would – certainly he would never call him _brother_, Jon and Larence Snow aside. Stark and Hornwood are fine men, and perhaps that was why Jon and Larence Snow were agreeable fellows. But Roose Bolton was not a fine man. Not a fine man at all.

Hopes dashed, he’d finished his ale with Old Lord Overton, stayed to play a song or three on his harp for Overton’s family, thanked Overton for the pleasure of his company, saddled Rhaegar, and returned home. He’d need to pack more things for a ride to the Rills with stops at Winterfell and Barrowton on either way.

It seemed so silly to leave the Redfort so soon – so wasteful. He’d caught up with Lord Horton and was planning to join his dearest friend Mychel on a tour of the major castles of the Vale. They’d stop at Runestone at least, and certainly the Gates of the Moon, and maybe he’d be able to convince Mychel that since he was a fourth son, he was free to do _anything _he wanted, so he should make an honest woman out of Mya and marry her. It would be like Duncan the Small and Jenny of Oldstones, if Duncan were a high lord lower than the crown prince, and Jenny was something nearer to a king’s bastard.

It wasn’t like Duncan and Jenny at all, really. Mychel and Mya had it far easier.

Plans ruined, he’d begged his leave of Lord Horton and Lady Redfort and the girls, bid goodbye to Jasper and his wife, left his regards for Creighton and Jon, and apologized profusely to Mychel. _There’s always next time_. He rode hard for Gulltown in the morning and three days later had boarded the next ship for White Harbor.

He didn’t stay long in White Harbor, just one night at an inn in the city, and didn’t enter New Castle either. Lady Wynafryd and Lady Wylla’s company he found perfectly pleasant, but Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse and his sons Ser No-Saddlebags-for-Me and Ser Slower-than-a-Trot he could barely tolerate without bursting into peals of laughter and breaking his placid Bolton mask. On the one hand, it would be discourteous. On the other hand, his father would take a toe if Domeric so much as chuckled in front of more than two Northern lordlings who were not close and familiar relations.

It wouldn’t do at all to beg the hospitality of New Castle.

He rode straight for Moat Cailin and only stopped to sleep or piss. When he arrived, he had the whole castle to himself for three entire days. Beneath the broken towers and ruined walls, encouraged by the humming sounds of the green, green life of the Neck, he breathed in the humid, swampy air, lay on the ground, took out his travel harp, and sang to the stars, savoring the opportunity to pretend he was Rhaegar Targaryen at Summerhall before his father’s men or the Umbers and Karstarks or any other Northern army could descend on the Moat and spoil his quiet, dreamy peace.

***

Soon the whole army arrived at the Moat. The peace and quiet broke when the first host (the Starks, Karstarks, and Umbers) came within ten leagues. Ten leagues are as close as any Bolton should be to any Umber, his father would say, Umbers are too loud. Even so, somehow, he wound up drinking in a drafty room off the hall next to Smalljon Umber, with Daryn Hornwood, the three Karstark brothers and a few sons of the hill tribes after the long commander’s meeting in the great hall. He’d drink alone, but he knows that this whole war is a chance to get to know the men he’d be dealing with for the rest of his life.

Moreover, he needed the drink, because today he had learned from Steelshanks Walton that the Bastard has been called to the Dreadfort and named castellan, and the thought turned his stomach. One only knows what the Bastard would do, what ideas he would get, once he’d been given the keys to the castle and found all its secret rooms. _Hunting horns and missing girls and bloody tree trunks and barking hounds, _he thinks_. It will get worse. And Reek will be there too. _His only memory of Reek from before he left for Barrowton was that Reek stank very very much and that half the Dreadfort was very very happy when Reek was sent away. _As happy as one can be at the Dreadfort._ Domeric drained another cup of ale and shook his head to push the disgusting thoughts away.

_Robb Stark should be here_, he thought instead, _he’s only a green lordling like us._ But Robb Stark was still in the great hall with his lady mother, discussing Lord Stark and the Stark girls’ captivity in King’s Landing. He wondered if Robb Stark would lead a rescue party to bring his sisters back from the South out of the clutches of the crown and the Kingsguard like Ned Stark did so long ago, and it isn’t until the Smalljon next to him shouted _Bolton! So you’ve eyes for a Stark bride, do you! _and heartily guffawed that he realized that he’d wondered aloud. A hill tribesman smirked at him and joined in the Smalljon’s laughter, intoning that Robb Stark would never let a Bolton join his rescue party, let alone have his beautiful sister – they all know which sister – and then the Karstark brothers and the hill tribe heirs struck up a loud debate on beautiful Northern ladies – beautiful women in general – and it was easy for him to quietly slip forgotten from the discussion. Daryn Hornwood quirked an eyebrow at him, also silent – Daryn was betrothed to Alys Karstark, and wisely said nothing, since in the room were three drunk Karstarks and only one drunk Hornwood, and anything Daryn said was like to earn him a blackened eye, a missing tooth, or a broken nose, and they hadn’t even left the North yet.

Thankfully the conversation was interrupted by a squire’s opening the door to summon them all back to the great hall for some important announcements from Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn. The Northern force would be split once they reached the Twins, with Robb Stark in command of the host in the west, Domeric’s father the host in the east. His father would take the Kingsroad down to the Trident to cut Tywin Lannister off from the Kingslayer in the West. Robb Stark would take the horse west across the Ruby Ford and lift the siege of Riverrun.

A battle guard for Robb Stark was also named, twenty for now, with more to be named later, when the Northern army joins up with the rivermen. Robb Stark and Lady Catelyn called the names of most all the young lordlings that had been drinking in their tent – save for a few hill tribesmen and Harrion Karstark – and some older nobles, like Robin Flint and Ser No-Saddlebags. Lady Catelyn even called his name, and he dipped his head at the invitation.

Halfway sober, he thought on the honor House Stark had given him. He’ll be counted among Robb Stark’s close companions - any group that consists of both Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy would eventually become thick as thieves, like Ned Stark and Howland Reed, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and his uncles Lord Willam and Ser Mark. The pick of the North would come to see him as more than Roose Bolton’s son, they’d see him as Ser Domeric, gentle and kind and true, they’d see why all the Rills swear he’s Ser Mark come back to life with dark, dark hair and ghost-grey eyes.

He’d met Ser Mark only once in his life, and regrettably he couldn’t even remember it, since he’d still been on his mother’s teat at Aunt Barbrey’s wedding to Lord Willam. Everyone who’d he’d ever spoken to about Ser Mark only had good things to say. Mother had fondly told him that Ser Mark was a true knight, and when Mother had died and he’d been sent to Barrowton, Aunt Barbrey had recounted story after story of Ser Mark taking her and Mother on rides through the Rills as little girls, Ser Mark making her smile, Ser Mark holding her shoulders as she cried when her heart was broken. Grandfather and his other Ryswell uncles had always praised Ser Mark’s skills in the lists, his skill with the spear, and above all, his ability to get them to stop their squabbles. Even Lord Stark had humored him when Domeric had occasion to beg a story about Ser Mark from Robert’s Rebellion.

More than once Domeric had wished that Ser Mark had been his father. Ser Mark deserved to ride with Lord Stark; Domeric would prove he deserved to ride with Robb. He would earn the trust of the other Northern lordlings, he would be named their friend, their brother if he was lucky, and in twenty or thirty years when Roose was dead the Dreadfort would be a place where smallfolk and high lords alike stopped on their travels, where other houses sent their sons to foster and offered their daughters to marry. Hopefully their fate wouldn’t all be the same as that of Ned Stark and his companions, though. Hopefully they would cut down enough Lannisters to bring back both Ladies Stark and ride back North with their lives. And he wouldn’t even need to ride in the same army as Roose; the camps would be nowhere near each other. He might even freely laugh at something the Smalljon or Greyjoy said without his father catching word of it.

But it wasn’t to be. When the throng of lords and heirs dispersed into the castle, his father placed a hand on Domeric’s shoulder and lead him to where Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark were standing.

“My lady,” his father started softly, “Lord Robb. I thank you for the honor you have given my son. I fear that with myself in command you show House Bolton overmuch favor. Surely there are some other names that merit the position? You must allow me to beg that my son ride in my company_.” _

It was another moment that Domeric could not control. His father would brook no public disagreement or complaint from him; he must calmly nod his head in assent if he wished to see the dawn with both his feet intact. For all that Domeric was a hand and a half taller than Roose, the chilly squeeze his father gave his upper arm left him feeling very small. So he nodded at Lady Catelyn, and blinked his eyes.

He could tell that Lady Catelyn and his father were thinking the same thing. _My son will not die for yours. _But that was exactly what Lady Catelyn wanted him to do if need be. He could tell that she wanted to keep the leash onto the Boltons short and tightly held. Where Smalljon and the others had been rewarded for their families’ well-known devotion to the direwolf, Domeric would have been a hostage to ensure Roose’s loyalty in the field. They were not truly giving him a chance to prove his worth. It all went back to Roose.

Lady Catelyn gave both of them a tight smile. By the way her, blue eyes narrowed and flicked to Robb’s he could tell that she had lost this battle, had given into Roose without fighting. Whether they’d discussed this before, he didn’t know. “Of course, Lord Bolton. We will find someone else,” she said. Father and son both dipped their heads. Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark turned to leave, and Domeric watched their two copper heads recede out of the hall.

Now that he would be marching southeast with his father instead of southwest, opportunities to prove himself true and brave and trustworthy and un-Boltonlike to the North would be few and far between. He’d have to make them himself.

Later, he heard that Lady Catelyn offered his spot in the guard to Dacey Mormont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story envisions Roose and Domeric as Bella Bergolts portrays them (https://www.artstation.com/artwork/oRryk, https://www.artstation.com/artwork/XWGJl) and Ramsay as NeFreet or LynxSphinx do (https://www.deviantart.com/nefreet/art/Ramsay-Bolton-387823707; https://www.deviantart.com/lynxsphinx/art/Ramsay-Bolton-457835227).
> 
> HBO really ripped us off by denying us our pink. All those great costumes for Dany, Cersei, and Sansa, but Roose and Ramsay's wardrobe got no love. Neither did Bronze Yohn, who didn't deserve to be 'Bronze' in the show. 
> 
> The first part of this story will be mostly a DB character study, following Roose's army until the end of the Wot5K. Sansa will not appear until the beginning of the second part.


	2. Domeric II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric makes a friend. The Battle on the Green Fork.

For all that they could have be riding to their doom, Domeric enjoyed the march down the Kingsroad. He usually rode with his cousin Robert ‘Robbie’ Ryswell, son of Roger, who stuck close beside their uncle, Roose Ryswell. As they made their progress he caught up with Ronnel Stout on how his family in Barrowton was faring, and when they made camp he’d taken many suppers with Harrion Karstark at his cookfire. Harrion – or Harry, as he asked to be called – was itching for battle, had strong opinions on most everything, and was all Northman. Harry’s father Lord Rickard had long since trusted him with dispatching with any wildlings raiding Karhold lands, of which there had been an increasing amount in recent years; Harry was eager to bash southron skulls.

“You’re mighty southron-looking yourself, Bolton,” Harry had chuckled. “Can’t grow any whiskers, can ye?”

Domeric shaved every morning. “I have been told that I am comelier without a beard,” he’d retorted softly. “But it is true that many of my habits were acquired while I squired in the Vale.”

“Oh? Did the Leech Lord squire South as well?”

“No. My late lord grandfather saw to my father’s education, and nobody at the Redfort or Runestone I’m familiar with ever leeched themselves. I am not sure where he learned of the practice. I do not believe my father was ever south of the Neck until Robert’s Rebellion.”

“So the Leech Lord is not a knight.”

“No.”

“But you are, aye? A septon in a dress smeared oil on your face after you spent the night praying in the new gods’ house?”

“Aye, I am a knight. But in the Vale, there are still some that keep the old gods, and some castles have a proper heart tree. When I was knighted, I kept vigil in a godswood, and I cut my hand and gave my blood to the weirwood before swearing my vows.”

“The first knight of the Dreadfort too?”

“Aye, I suppose so.”

“But would a knight flay a man alive?”

“No, but I could flay a dead man and none would be the wiser.”

“Har! I shall call you Ser Flayer, Knight of the Dreadfort then.” Harry’s tone betrayed his japing intent, the Karstark’s long-borne scorn for southron knights and wariness of the Bolton name apparent. But Domeric paid no mind, for there was no harm in a moniker that was entirely true. Besides, he held his vows closer to his heart than he did his father’s heritage. He had much the same reaction when Harry found out he played the high harp and named his horse Rhaegar and said, _Har! You’ll be Domeric Targaryen to me, then_. He didn’t mind. He’d been an admirer of the Last Dragon since he’d learned about Robert’s Rebellion in his lessons with the old Barrowton maester as a boy. _A warrior prince who played the harp and loved his histories. _‘Twas a fine thing to be.

Nonetheless, Domeric didn’t like others noting he was ‘more Redfort than Dreadfort’, as his father was wont to say. His being nearly too southron for the flayed man sigil was his least favorite topic of conversation, after anything to do with his father or their relationship in general. His fostering in the Redfort was the one of the few decisions of Roose’s that he agreed with, for all that Roose seemed to rue its consequences. So he changed the subject.

“Tell me about the Karhold.” Harry was more than happy to oblige. He described two keeps on a river atop two weathered rocky hills, connected by a wooden rope bridge; the outer walls ringed the hills, each keep had its own tall pointed towers and curtain walls. The floors and the beds and even a cloak or two were made of sealskin furs, for the Bay of Seals was just to the north, and seal hunting was good no matter the season. Some summer days one could ride east to the Grey Cliffs and dive into the sea without freezing.

Knives and swords and axes in the Karhold armory had handles of tusked seal ivory, and even whalebone; mounted on the wall in the Lord’s solar was an ice bear’s snarling head whose was is on the floor. The wooden furniture was carved with sunbursts and on the walls hung tapestries of Karlon Stark and his deeds.

But Domeric thought that the best part of the Karhold was that it was full of Karstarks. Besides Lord Rickard and Harry, there were Torr and Edd and Alys, Uncle Arnolf and his son, Cousin Cregan. Uncle Arnolf might not have been the most agreeable company, and Cregan might have been a boor, but Torr and Edd were apparently riotous fun, riding along the river, hunting, and fighting wildlings. Even their dear sister Alys joined them in their rides and hunts sometimes. Domeric envied Harry his large and mostly loving family.

“The Karhold sounds wonderful.”

“My friend, you will always be welcome there. But make sure to bring your harp along.” Harry Karstark was the first son of a Northern noble house to call him a friend. Domeric’s father was with the Dreadfort camp, so he smiled as brightly as he wanted and started plucking the opening chords to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair. _Everyone within earshot of Harry’s cookfire sang.

When they made camp with two days’ march remaining to Lord Harroway’s Town, his father called a meeting of the commanders at his tent to prepare for the coming battle. Domeric was not a commander, but he was always present at these discussions. Harry was a commander, though. Harry would be in charge of the Karstark spearmen on the right by the river. Straddling the Kingsroad in the center right would be Lord Medger Cerwyn and his men, and in the center left were the Freys, led by Ser Aenys. Robett Glover would hold the left. In the rear, his father commanded the Dreadfort reserve of foot, and Ronnel Stout the reserve heavy cavalry, barrowknights, and Rillmen. The column would reflect this formation, and in the morning, they would march for a day and a night in hope of ambushing Tywin Lannister’s camp near Lord Harroway’s Town at dawn.

His father pushed the eastern host hard south along the Green Fork. Domeric rode in the rear with the barrowknights and men from the Rills that had joined the Dreadfort’s levies. He was behind Ronnel Stout and between Roose and Robbie Ryswell and he marked the hours by the swish of Ronnel’s horse’s tail. Since most of the column consisted of foot, the horses only needed to walk. While riding didn’t tire him at all, the monotony of it all did, and soon he was exhausted. Aside from the sound of hoofbeats and footsteps, the army was silent. Many if not most were too drained to talk.

Then on the horizon in the predawn they could see the jagged silhouette of the Lannister camp and the smoking remains of the cookfires. It was time to form up. He could see his father giving the signal to the hornblowers. Having locked in place in the steady rear line, there was little for him to do at this point but sit and watch from atop Rhaegar’s back while they slowly advanced.

From the commotion on the horizon it was apparent that the Lannisters were awake and moving into formation. The first line of foot charged. Soon out of the dewy fog of the predawn light came a hail of arrows, and they landed against Harry’s shield wall.

Then the Lannister van along the river, all ahorse, charged Harry’s shield wall. Domeric could see the standard bearing three black dogs on a yellow field. A hulking figure on a falling horse smashed into the shield wall and rose to cut down many Karhold men. _The Mountain, _Domeric shuddered. _Stay safe, my friend._

In the center and the left, Lord Cerwyn, the Freys, and the Glovers joined the charge to support Harry’s spending force. From beyond The Mountain, he heard the telltale whoops and calls of the mountain clans of the Vale. He almost did not believe it, but he saw it, and wondered if anyone besides himself in the Northern army had ever killed one of them before. _How in the seven hells did they get here?_

His musing was unhelpful. The Northern army would clearly be soundly defeated. They had only engaged the van led by Clegane and now it seemed like another company of fresh cavalry was preparing to charge. They bore the burning tree banner, orange on smoke. _House Marbrand. Ser Addam is said to be a fine commander._

It would be a rout. It had already been a rout, no matter how many Vale mountain clansmen they had broken with their discipline. The Lannisters didn’t outnumber them by much, but the lion’s horse vastly exceeded the wolf’s, and that would seal the day.

Then his father signaled to the hornblowers and drummers to sound for the retreat into the hills. The Dreadfort foot began their northward march. The mounted barrowknights and Rillmen fell back a bit as well, waiting to swing around and defend the Karstsark, Cerwyn, Frey, and Glover foot from the rear.

_My first battle,_ Domeric thought, _and I didn’t even get to charge, let alone bloody my sword_. He knew that in this moment his personal glory did not matter, for the entire strategy depended on distracting Tywin and sparing as much of Northern foot as possible. Once the confrontation had lasted long enough to be called a battle, there was no need to continue the ruse.

After another day’s march back up the Kingsroad, once it was clear that the Old Lion’s forces were not pursuing their column, they made camp. The men urge the rest. Not the lords and commanders though – his father ordered all of them and the officers to his commander’s pavilion to make an accounting of the highborn casualties. Ser Aenys Frey noted the death of Ser Pate of the Blue Fork, a Frey by marriage, fallen to Gregor Clegane. Ser Jared Frey, Ser Hosteen Frey, Ser Danwell Frey, and the bastard Ronel Rivers were also unaccounted for, either fallen or taken prisoner. Robett Glover recounted the death of Halys Hornwood, who took an arrow to the throat. Kyle Condon supplied that Medger Cerwyn was missing, and nobody could find Ser Slower, Ser Donnel Locke, or Harry. _Harry. Damn._ After, the officers called roll. It was estimated that they’d lost about five thousand men. The loss of foot was not an unmitigable disaster, but so many highborns dead or taken was a heavy cost for a mere distraction.

On the morrow they would make for the causeway and hold the Moat. The march would be much less merry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Karstark is one of those characters that we get like two glimpses of who ends up having more importance in absence than in presence. He's also someone you can do literally anything with, as long as you keep in mind what actually happens in the story. Just like Domeric. I like to think they could have been friends, along with Daryn Hornwood (RIP).


	3. Domeric III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After retreating back up to Moat Cailin, Roose confers with Domeric on the aftermath of the battle.

They dropped the Frey host off at the Twins and made their way back to the Moat. The Dreadfort force took the Gatehouse Tower, since his father held the command. The Bolton men shared the tower with the Dustin and Ryswell companies since there was room. The Glovers and the Cerwyns occupied the Children’s Tower, and the Karstarks less their leader shared the Drunkard’s Tower with the smattering of men from other Northern houses.

He was just settling down into the room he’d been given when Elmar Frey, his father’s chinless squire, knocked on his door.

“Ser,” he said. “Ser, Lord Bolton requests that you attend him in his solar before the commander’s meeting in the great hall.”

“Thank you, Elmar. I know my way up.” His father’s chambers were at the top of the Drunkard’s tower, one flight up from his own. Elmar nodded, followed him up the stairs, and knocked on the door to the solar.

“Lord Bolton, Ser Domeric to see you.”

“Enter,” his father said.

“Father.” Roose was already looking straight at him. He met his father’s eyes, and Roose motioned for him to sit. “Elmar, a cup and some hippocras for my son.” He hated hippocras, but always drank as his father did whenever he was in private attendance with Roose. He preferred sweet Arbor golds or hearty Northern ales, but his father did not keep these at the Dreadfort or in his chambers while traveling.

“There was a bird from Riverrun. It brings much news. Robb Stark’s army met the Kingslayer at the Whispering Wood and captured him after the victory, but not before he cut down Daryn Hornwood and Tohrren and Eddard Karstark. The Lannisters were routed, their entire force slain or taken prisoner. Aside from the loss of young Hornwood and the Karstark boys, Northern casualties were insignificant. Robb Stark then lifted the siege of Riverrun. What’s more, King Robert has died and the boy Joffrey took Ned Stark’s head and slaughtered his household, so the lords in Riverrun named Robb Stark the King in the North and of the Trident. His Grace is planning a campaign in the Westerlands to strike the heart of Lannister support. Lord Tywin is retreating to Harrenhal, which our scouts already know,” here his father paused. “The rivermen mean to take their castles and lands back one by one. His Grace sent Theon Greyjoy to the Iron Islands seeking an alliance with the Iron Fleet. Lady Catelyn is riding south to treat with both Baratheon brothers. What’s more, Riverrun received a white raven from the Citadel.

“What say you on these matters, my son?” His father stared at him intently.

Domeric was silent for a moment before starting. _Where to begin? The beginning of the letter._ He took a breath. “The Whispering Wood and Riverrun victories prove our feint to have been successful, but that splitting the host was costly. The identities of the highborn causalities will cause strife in the North for His Grace.

“The deaths of Lord Halys and Daryn Hornwood mean that the Hornwood succession is in question. There is Lord Hornwood’s bastard Larence Snow at Deepwood Motte, so the Glovers might press his claim. Since Lady Hornwood was a Manderly by birth, the White Harbor might take offense to this. Then there is Lord Hornwood’s sister, Lady Berena, who married Leobald Tallhart. She has two sons, either of which may succeed to the Hornwood, unless death should take Lord Helman and young Benfred. Then one might succeed the Hornwood, and the other might wed little Lady Eddara to join both Tallhart lines. The Karstarks and the Flints may also press claims, but both are weaker. To avoid insulting any, His Grace may let House Hornwood die out, and name a new House to the seat, or even distribute its lands between the Dreadfort and White Harbor, or even Ramsgate, but each of those solutions bring their own problems.

“Additionally, should Harrion Karstark be dead rather than a prisoner, the Karhold succession would also be unstable. Lord Karstark is not yet too old to wed again, but the easier solution would be to wed Lady Alys to Arnolf’s son Cregan, the next male in line of appropriate age. But from what Harrion has told me of his temper, Lord Rickard will be wroth at his sons’ deaths, and nobody in the main Karstark branch gets on well with either Arnolf or Cregan.”

“It is as you say. What of the campaign in the Westerlands?”

“Rash. Stupid, even. His Grace is being foolish. Autumn is here. The King in the North ought remember that winter is coming. He should be brokering a peace with the Iron Throne by trading the Kingslayer for the Princess Sansa. It only matters that her betrothal to Joffrey be broken.” By all estimations, the Princess Arya was dead. There had been no word of her since before Lord Stark had been taken captive. She had most likely been killed along with the rest of the Stark household, or had died in a gutter outside the Red Keep, her remains stewing in a bowl of brown. If she lived, she would be Elmar’s.

“If the North is to be an independent kingdom again, it matters not whether Cersei’s get are bastards. An independent North need not bother with Stannis or Renly’s claims, or this campaign to the west. It would be superfluous in spring, disastrous with winter approaching. All the North should commit as many men as possible to bringing in the last harvest, maybe the last two, or we will all starve before we see spring because we let our crops die in the fields.

“But the Princess will not be traded for the Kingslayer if they mean to succeed in this campaign. The Kingslayer is a battle commander and is worth more as a hostage in war than a girl of thirteen. The only worth the Western campaign has is vengeance for Lord Stark. That can wait till spring. If His Grace lets the Princess languish in King’s Landing until he can claim total victory, he may as well slit her throat himself. We cannot trust the Lannisters to preserve her honor, and no man would have her after. It only makes sense to leave her south if we use her marriage to Joffrey to broker a peace, but His Grace will not accept his sister bedding down with the man who took his father’s head.

“And since His Grace needed to take a Frey wife to make the Crossing at the Twins, the Princess and the little Prince Rickon must make Northern matches. The other lords would be slighted otherwise.” It was all he could do not to furrow his brow in front of his father. He had to keep his face. The Princess would be given to Smalljon Umber, or Harry Karstark if he still lived. Cley Cerwyn perhaps, or his cousin Robbie Ryswell, but young Cley had been left at Castle Cerwyn and could claim no deeds of valor. Cousin Robbie hadn’t any either yet, but he would, and the match would do well to repair the relations between the Rills and Barrowton that had soured since the Starks spurned Aunt Barbrey and left Ser Mark and Lord Willam to bake in the Dornish sun. Domeric himself was out of the question since he was a Bolton, and Boltons did not get Stark brides. Not in eight thousand years.

“The only thing to do is to exchange the Kingslayer for the Princess, march everybody back up the Kingsroad, leave some men to close the Moat, and prepare for winter.”

“Very good. And Theon Greyjoy?”

“Another folly. Greyjoy is like as not to come back to His Grace empty handed having wasted his time as he is to turn his cloak and help Lord Balon strike back at the North for its part in putting down the rebellion. If the snows do not shut us out of our lands, the Ironborn will do it for us.” For all that he did not savor the smirking kraken’s company, who considered himself the comeliest lordling north of the Neck – that was not true, that was himself, or Cousin Robbie or Uncle Roose, or Daryn Hornwood or Robb Stark or even Jon Snow - he did have a measure of sympathy for Greyjoy’s situation. Just as it was said that Domeric was more Redfort than Dreadfort, Greyjoy was nothing if not more a northern greenlander than an Ironborn. Balon Greyjoy would look down his hawkish nose at Theon when he returned, and Theon would either double down on the habits and loyalty he had picked up with the Starks, or bend over backwards to prove himself a true kraken. It all depended on Theon’s relationship with his father, whether he resented him or wanted to please him. Domeric understood.

“You are shrewd, my son. Come, let us dine with the lords and share this news.” His father rose and placed a hand on Domeric’s shoulder. It went unsaid that the lords would not be made privy to this discussion, only the letter.

Elmar held the door open for them and they walked downstairs to the hall. As they silently made their way through the castle he thought on the discussion with his father. Roose seemed pleased with him, as much as Roose Bolton could be pleased. He very rarely pleased his father – he very rarely wanted to – but there was no shame in it this time. He would be shamed by flaying a living man’s hand to spill his secrets – it was not knightly – but there was no shame in simply being smart about things and sharing his piece.

He was smart, even Roose said so, but Robb Stark did not appear to be, for all he had engineered a tactical success at the Whispering Wood. From his visits to Winterfell over the years he had taken Robb Stark to be kind, charming, and genial and only just growing into the seriousness that befit a high lord’s firstborn son and heir. Now it seemed that His Grace the King in the North did not take a long-term view of things as a true king ought. Domeric would bet Rhaegar’s hide that Robb Stark would be the King Who Lost the North before the year was out. He had too many political problems brewing at home, he’d pulled out the only cork stopping the Ironborn from reaving Bear Island to the Arbor, he was waging war in the south when they should be pulling in the harvest, and he’d left the Princess a prisoner in the capital to be dishonored at the beastly Joffrey’s whims.

The thought made him frown. He could frown because he was walking behind his father, and Roose couldn’t see his face. If any maiden in Westeros deserved to be a princess it was the lovely Sansa Stark, and if any princess deserved to be rescued it was she. The sweet girl simply did not deserve King Robb’s abandonment to her betrothal with Joffrey Baratheon, for all that she would have made a wonderful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She was courteous and kind and was always a delight to talk to, with her bright eyes, soft smiles and demure laughter, clear as a bell. She’d always been pretty as a child, but without a doubt at thirteen years old she’d already been the most beautiful girl north of Moat Cailin, and he’d hadn’t seen anyone better in the Vale. If the Queen was called the Light of the West, surely Lady Sansa was the Light of the North. No one who had ever seen her could ever forget her face.

Whenever he visited Winterfell they’d play the high harp together and sometimes she would accompany him by playing the bells instead. He’d help her with her poetry and sometimes set her poems to music. _All songs start out as poems, _he’d told her, _and all poems can be made into songs. _Like her father, she enjoyed hearing his stories of his time at the Redfort, and when she’d heard he’d been knighted she’d congratulated him by embroidering a handkerchief of pink silk with a flayed man holding a bloody sword atop a black horse with a red mane. It was rather morbid, but he kept the gift all the same. He’d shown it to Aunt Barbrey on his next stay in Barrow Hall, but she’d just scowled and asked him why he’d been accepting favors from _Catelyn Tully’s little minnow._ He didn’t care for the insult to the Lady Sansa, but in observance of his lady aunt’s feelings he’d curbed his tongue and simply said it would have been discourteous to reject any gift from Lord Stark’s daughter while a guest under Lord Stark’s roof.

Truly, Aunt Barbrey’s comment had cut him to the quick. He saw in the Lady Sansa something of a kindred spirit. For all that she might be deemed too Southron to be a Stark thanks to her Tully mother, the same could have been said of him and Lord Eddard too due to their fosterings. She and Lord Eddard both failed to openly show that wild wolf’s blood that made the Starks the Starks in times long past. Likewise, while he did sharpen all of his blades every evening, and was no slouch at the mechanics of flaying – he could skin a deer, after all – he didn’t have the heart for torture, and he could not countenance cruelty to the smallfolk or the thought of practicing the right of the first night. The only time he truly felt like he belonged in the North was when he went riding in the Rills with his Ryswell cousins, and he hardly saw them. Since his fostering had ended and he had been made a knight, most of his time had been spent at the Dreadfort training to be the next Lord Bolton. He had the ‘lord’ part well in hand, even Roose said so, but it was clear he’d never live up to the family name. He didn’t want to anyhow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A look at how Roose examines the product of his training. Also a peek at how not everybody might be happy with His Grace, Robb Stark, KingInDaNorf. Any 'Robb Hate' in future chapters is all in Domeric's head. Same with Cat, etc.
> 
> Also, Elmar Frey! Poor guy. Annara Farring's get probably won't have anyone to protect them when winter comes for the Freys in-series. It's not their fault, they're all basically kids. 
> 
> This story will be updated on Fridays. At the time of this posting about 10 chapters are written.


	4. Domeric IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose sends Domeric on a bride hunt at the Twins.

They occupied the Moat for nearly four long moons. After the red comet disappeared and the subsequent chatter died down, it was all so boring. There was no library at Moat Cailin. There was little to do besides train with the men. Cousin Robbie had wanted to set up a space so the Rillmen and barrowknights and some men from White Harbor could practice at the lance, but there wasn’t enough heavy cavalry to merit the effort. Most of the horse the eastern host had was light cavalry rather than heavy. There weren’t even commanders’ meetings and the attendant conversations with his father, for they had no orders besides occupying the Moat from either His Grace or Riverrun. If not for Cousin Robbie he would have been driven out of his mind.

Even singing and playing his travel harp became gratingly tedious. If he wanted to practice scales and drills to keep his fingers nimble or simply play anything other than _The Bear and the Maiden Fair _or _The Lusty Lad _he’d needed to sneak away to a ruined part of the keep. Sometimes someone would ask for _Iron Lances_ or _Black Pines, _which he enjoyed, but no one ever wanted to hear _My Featherbed _or _Off to Gulltown, _which were his favorites_._ He’d even sang _Her Little Flower _and _Meggett Was a Merry Maid, a Merry Maid Was She_, since they were in step with what the men liked, but even those fell out of favor in a matter of days, and it was back to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair _again. Still, he could tell that morale was suffering, that the men were as bored as he was while His Grace’s host was marching west, so he obliged them their favorite bawdy song.

Late in the fifth moon of the year there was a bird from Riverrun. Ser Edmure was commanding them to join up with Ser Aenys at the Twins and take Harrenhal from Lord Tywin. _Finally, something to do_.

Like before, the march to the Twins was short. The mood was much the same, though the men had been bloodied. Apprehensive to ride out after so many weeks idle, the men were eager for battle, more so now that His Grace and his army’s deeds in the west had earned him the moniker the ‘Young Wolf’. _The Dumb Wolf, more like_.

His father left him and Steelshanks Walton to see to the Dreadfort camp while he met with Ser Aenys and Lord Walder inside the castle. As he was settling into his own tent, he saw a short shadow on the entrance flaps.

“Ser, Lord Bolton requests your presence within the east castle.” It was Elmar.

Elmar led him into the seat of the Lord of the Crossing. Domeric hadn’t been inside the Twins before; he hadn’t even gotten to cross that famous bridge. He tried to ask Elmar about the history of the castles, which parts were built when, how the Freys had managed to keep everything so bloody _symmetrical _over six hundred years, but the boy had few answers with him, and those he had were short and vague. Perhaps the boy was daft. Perhaps he just didn’t care.

Eventually Elmar opened the double doors to the great hall. Inside were his father and Ser Aenys. Arrayed around them were some thirteen women and girls who looked to be between the ages of five-and-ten and thirty. Lord Walder’s high seat of black oak carved into the twin towers’ likeness was empty. Domeric felt his stomach turn, his heart filling with dread as he schooled his face to calm.

“My lord father has retired for the day,” Elmar whispered up to him. “But he has given my brother Aenys leave to conduct his business.” Ser Aenys was old enough to be Elmar’s grandfather.

Domeric gulped silently. “And what would that business be, Elmar?”

“That is for Ser Aenys and Lord Bolton to share, ser.”

_Fuck! _Was he to have a Frey bride like His Grace? They didn’t need to cross the damn bridge to get to bloody Harrenhal! Did his father mean to have dark-furred pale-eyed _weasels_ for grandchildren? He could not imagine the next Lord of the Dreadfort without a chin. The cold stare of his sires required eyes, nose, _and chin_ to have the same effect. _Don’t let it be so,_ he implored to the old gods. He wondered if they could hear him so far from a weirwood.

“Father, Ser Aenys. How may I be of service?” his voice was soft but his voice echoed since the hall’s ceilings were high.

“Domeric. Thank you for joining us. Ser Aenys and I have been discussing the terms of a marriage pact. But day has grown long and our talks are not yet done. My son, I task you with speaking with each of these fine young ladies while Ser Aenys and I finalize our discussion.”

So it was true. _Fuck_! Did Roose truly hate him so, to torture him with an ugly wife to take to his bed and look upon for the rest of his days? He did not _hate _Roose, their differences aside. He respected his father, aye, the most intelligent man between Greywater Watch and the Wall. Sometimes Domeric thought that his father was the only lord in the North who bothered to string two thoughts together and consider the consequences of his actions. He and Roose never _liked_ each other, aye, and his father seemed to scorn his habits and preferences – his passion for the high harp, songs, and poetry for one, and his commitment to knighthood and codes of chivalry for another – but he had always had the impression that Roose had some measure of respect for him, or at least his for skill at arms and as a horseman and his swift recall of history and the ease which he took to politics. 

His days riding in the Rills had taught him that careful breeding was as important for men as it was for horseflesh. Grandfather Rodrik had always stressed the importance of jealously guarding the blood through deliberate matchmaking. It was the same with men as with horses and dogs. The wrong choice of sire or dam could spoil a line forever. Ryswell heirs sought brides who were tall, strong-boned, and fair of face, with brothers who were tall and broad, muscular and handsome, so Ryswell daughters would be tall and comely to attract powerful husbands, and Ryswell sons would be imposing to command respect. He was glad that for all he had Roose’s coloring, he had inherited the frame and features of his mother’s kin. Like skill in battle and a shrewd wit, comely faces and well-formed bodies were assets in the great game.

He was certain that bedding down with a Frey would taint Bolton blood for generations to come. Such a risk was not worth any amount of coin that would be spent in a few short years, or an alliance that would break when the winds of fortune turned, or a title to a patch of land that could be conquered away. He’d almost rather take the black, leave the Dreadfort to the Bastard, and never again look upon a woman’s face than willingly sow his seed in poison ground. Even marrying an Umber would be better.

“For myself or for you, Father?” He was not usually so bold with Roose, but he hoped beyond hope that his father meant to wed for the third time rather than saddling him with a weasel for the rest of his life. After his time in Barrowton as Aunt Barbrey’s page had ended, but before he had left for the Redfort, he had even asked his father if he would marry again so he could have a mother and siblings. Roose had stared at him and said, _perhaps,_ but it came to naught.

“We shall see.”

Ser Aenys spoke up. “Allow me to present my stepmother, the Lady Joyeuse Frey, born of House Erenford,” he said, and motioned to a pale girl with wispy hair and a slightly swelling belly. Lady Frey could be Ser Aenys’ granddaughter too. “She will introduce you to my sisters, nieces, and cousins and serve as your chaperone today.” Domeric could feel thirteen sets of female eyes mooning at him or raking down his form. It was uncomfortable, but he supposed it wasn’t every day that high lords and their sons came to Lord Walder’s hall seeking a wife.

“I am enchanted, my lady.” He bent to kiss her knuckles and smiled with all his teeth. She squirmed and looked at the floor.

“One more thing, my son. We march on the Ruby Ford in two days’ time. The wedding will be tomorrow. Elmar will bring you to my tent this evening and we will have words.”

“As you say, Father.” Roose and Ser Aenys exited the hall, and left him to his task. He had no idea what his father liked, or if Roose did like anything particular in women, so he would have to base his assessments on what was practical and politically astute. That he could do.

He estimated that there were around three hours of sunlight left in the day. Three hours, twelve girls, fifteen minutes each.

Lady Frey began by introducing the three daughters of Merrett Frey, son of Lord Walder’s Crakehall wife. The three sisters’ mother was Mariya Darry, and all three had yellow hair and watery blue eyes. Crakehall men were built like the boars of their sigil, but often ran to fat, and Crakehall women were known throughout the Seven Kingdoms for their big breasts and wide hips and large rear ends. They also often ran to fat, and had a reputation for being wantons who often gave their husbands horns. His father would flay alive any wife who dared do such a thing. Domeric himself would be content to lock her in a tower and never speak to her again.

The eldest was Lady Amerei, recently widowed, whose late husband Ser Pate of the Blue Fork died at the Battle on the Green Fork not five moons ago. She touched his arm and palmed his chest in a way that was much too familiar to be proper and gave him eyes that would rival Baelish’s finest Gulltown whores. This one would cuckold him if she ever bore a babe, he sensed. He did would not have that and knew his father would not either.

Then there was Lady Walda, called “Fat Walda” to distinguish her from Fair Walda, White Walda, and Walda Rivers; she was four hands shorter than he but looked to weigh fifteen stone – two stones more. That wasn’t the worst of problems she could have, he supposed. The expected ten-year winter and associated severe rationing required at the Dreadfort would take care of that eventually. She might even save them some food if they put her on a reduction scheme. He could put her on a strict riding schedule to accelerate the process. What’s more, her girth made it rather likely that she was still a maid. The lady had an easy giggle, a quick wit, and told bawdy japes as well as any man-at-arms. She could bring mirth and laughter to the Dreadfort, and his father wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. He could laugh to please a lady wife or lady mother. Walda would be excellent company in a long winter holed up indoors most days but it was a shame she was so fat. She might have passed as pretty – never beautiful - in some lights, and only if she smiled, if she hadn’t been fat.

The last was Lady Marissa. She was neither as brazen as Amerei nor as much riotous fun as Walda. She was rather plain, less memorable than her sisters, and he supposed she would serve so long as she was truly a maiden and had been properly trained to run a keep.

Lady Sarra, Lady Serra, and Lady Cersei were the daughters of Raymund Frey, brother of Merrett, and Lady Beony Beesbury. While the Beesburys were a First Men house, they were Reachers, so none might take well to the North. Sarra and Serra were pimply, and all three were Crakehall Freys. They did not seem much better than their cousins.

It seemed that there was no end to the Crakehall Freys, for the dark-eyed, black-haired beauty Lady Alyx was a Crakehall Frey as well. Her father was Symond, brother of Merrett and Raymund, and her mother was Bethario of Braavos. The lady’s brother Alesander was a singer and she also played the high harp. For all that she had that wanton Crakehall blood, he might get on well with her. But her mother was from Essos and no half-foreigner would be the Lady of the Dreadfort. Southron ladies were looked down upon enough back up North. He couldn’t subject a girl to that.

Lady Roslin, Lord Walder’s daughter, was a proper little lady and more in line with his tastes, with a cute little gap-toothed grin and shy smiles. From her pallor and her dark eyes and her long brown hair, she might have passed for a northerner if her fine bones didn’t look so delicate as to break like a bird’s. Her mother’s name had also been Bethany, but Lady Bethany Frey had been a Rosby, and the Rosby family was known for easily taking ill. Lady Roslin would die in childbed or of a fever like his mother or be taken by the cold. That would not do for either his father or himself.

Lady Tyta, daughter of Lord Walder by Lady Alyssa Blackwood, had seen nine-and-twenty name days. She was too old.

Lady Tysane was the daughter of Lame Lothar Frey, Lord Walder’s steward and Lady Tyta’s eldest brother. Her mother was Lady Leonella Lefford of the Golden Tooth. The Leffords were sworn to the Lannisters, so such a match would not pass in the current political environment.

Lady Arwyn was Elmar’s oldest full-blooded sister. Their mother was Lady Annara Farring. Elmar was all right, for all that he was scared of leeches, so he supposed his sister must be too. She would serve if she could weather the cold and run a keep. He’d have to ask Elmar, for all the boy only had eleven namedays behind him.

By far the best was “Fair Walda”, daughter of Ser Walton, son of Ser Stevron. Walda was nearly of an age with Domeric and was a picture of beauty drawn by a man without a muse - what men imagined a beautiful woman to be when no particular woman haunted their dreams. She had a fine and shapely figure, sandy blonde hair and clear blue eyes with a straight nose and bow-shaped lips set in a symmetrical oval face. Very academically comely. She had the smug smile of a woman who knew she was beautiful and had an arrogant air about her, but then he was rather vain too. They all had their faults. What was more, her mother was Deana Hardyng, aunt of Harry Hardyng, heir presumptive to the Vale; her grandmother, Walton’s mother, was Marsella Waynwood, sister to Lady Anya Waynwood; and Stevron’s mother was Perra Royce, kin to Bronze Yohn and Nestor. Fair Walda’s elder brother Steffon was a knight in service to House Waynwood, and her younger brother Bryan was a squire with the Hunters at Longbow Hall. According to Walda, her father looked like a Waynwood like her brother Steff, while she and Bryan took after their Hardyng mother. Fair Walda would be a fine match no matter her Frey name or the look of her face. If his father made him marry a Frey, Fair Walda would be his choice.

At the end, his choice didn’t matter. When Elmar appeared and led him out of the castle to his father’s tent where the maester was leeching him, Roose immediately asked about “the blonde fat one”. Apparently Roose and Ser Aenys had finally agreed on the terms of the alliance, and those included the bride’s weight in silver as a dowry. “His Grace’s war is like to keep our levies raised until the year is out. We will not have the men to pull in the harvest, as you predicted. We need the coin to import food from Essos and keep the smallfolk fed and quiet.”

He gave Roose his piece on Fat Walda – sharp, witty, likely to last the winter. Fertile by all indications. Darry mother, Crakehall grandmother. He didn’t mention Walda’s laughter. That would spoil it. “And who shall be getting married tomorrow, Father?”

Roose only stared at him. If he tried to read his father’s features, he’d say Roose’s look said, _boy, I know you’re not stupid. _But then he could never tell with Roose.

“Why, me, of course,” his father said. And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some comedy. I give you Rodrik Ryswell, the amateur eugenicist, and an overreacting Domeric. The Freys have a reputation that goes far and wide, as do the Crakehalls. 
> 
> Pardon the language. From the mouth of Walder Frey himself, "all the Crakehall women are sluts" (AGOT, Catelyn IX). Catelyn in ASOS calls them robust and good for bearing children, but maybe she either chooses to ignore this other aspect of their reputation or was just shielded from it. A reputation for giving husbands horns would not bode well for the daughters of any house's prospects.
> 
> Fat Walda also makes her first appearance here. I love Fat Walda. Even Roose Bolton likes Fat Walda. Every mention of Fat Walda in canon is pure joy.
> 
> I find Frey politics super interesting. If you haven't seen it, go watch Preston Jacobs' "Frey Civil War" video. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdngFZrG4pQ


	5. Domeric V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding at the Twins.
> 
> There will be slut shaming and sexism in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O you on the way of Love go by,  
listen and see  
if there is any grief, as grave as mine:  
and I beg you only to suffer me to be heard,  
and then reflect  
whether I am not the tower and the key of every torment.  
Amor, indeed not for my slight worth  
but through his nobility  
placed me in a life so sweet and gentle,  
that often I would hear it said behind me:  
'God, for what virtue  
does this heart own so much delight?'  
Now I have lost all my eloquence  
which flowed so from love's treasure:  
and I am grown so poor  
in a way that speech barely comes to me.  
So that I desire to be like one  
who to conceal his poverty through shame,  
shows joy outwardly,  
and within my heart am troubled and weep.
> 
> \- Dante Alighieri, 'O you on the way of Love go by', La Vita Nuova

It was passing strange watching his father get married in a sept, by a septon, swearing his vows by the Seven gods Roose didn’t believe in. He wondered if those vows had any force, whether they would mean anything at all. It was an interesting theological question. Roose’s last two wives had been women of the North of ancient First Men stock who worshipped the old gods, his last two weddings in front of a heart tree. He could not say whether his father _worshipped_ the old gods either – he never saw Roose give his blood to the weirwood, he never saw Roose kneel and pray – but he did know that Roose feared them. By Domeric’s lights the old gods were the only things that Roose feared. In the light of the Seven, House Bolton and the Red Kings of old would have been condemned long ago, having committed sins uncounted. But the old gods were permissive, their prohibitions few but strictly observed – severely enforced. An atrocity in the light of the Seven was merely more blood for the weirwood.

Ser Merrett ushered Lady Walda down the aisle between the altars of the Father and the Mother. Her maiden’s cloak bore the twin towers of Frey, with Crakehall brindled boars and Darry plowmen parading around underneath the river. The cloak could have passed for a tapestry depicting the life of a farm in the shadow of a keep. He didn’t have the vocabulary to describe how it had been made – some type of embroidery here, some patching together of furs and fabrics there – but truly, Lady Walda’s maiden’s cloak was a work of art. Ser Merrett swung the cloak off Lady Walda’s shoulders, and Roose unclasped his white-trimmed greatcloak of pink vair spotted with red, and placed the new Lady of the Dreadfort under his protection. Domeric had three namedays on his new stepmother.

They made a queer pair, the Lord and Lady Bolton. His father was not handsome, but he was not ugly either. His features were regular, his face plain. He would be very average looking, very nondescript, if not for his cold Bolton eyes and the striking Bolton pinks and reds. By contrast, Walda’s features stood out: her bright yellow hair, her jiggling girth, the little brown freckles along the bridge of her nose. He’d been wrong about the Freys; they weren’t all weasels. The Crakehall Freys were pigs. Walda especially looked a pig, wrapped in his father’s pink cloak; she certainly sounded like one, with her infectious, snorty giggles. He wondered what his new half-siblings would look like. He hoped that his own marriage – to whichever lucky lady – would be prosperous and long, bearing many beautiful babes with ghost-grey eyes and night dark hair. The line of the Red Kings would not fall to pigs. No matter how Walda’s get turned out, he was still the heir to the Dreadfort.

The Frey women hadn’t the time to organize a true wedding feast, so the food was normal supper fare. There were merely more courses, more ale, more wine. Domeric wanted to indulge himself in the wine, for someone had thought to seat him next to the Lady Amerei, who he’d recently learned from Elmar was called ‘Gatehouse Ami’, since she “raised her portcullis for every knight who happened by”. Domeric wondered if he had been saying such things when he was eleven. Just this evening Lady Amerei had shoved her round, freckly teats under his nose and palmed his breeches under the table. Disgusting. He hated when highborn women played the part of slatterns. Even whores were better, for at least one had to step up, jump even, to clear the bars set by coin! But this Gatehouse Ami’s behavior was nothing if not base. Frey blood was hardly better than baseborn blood for how rare and ancient it was. Proper ladies did not act thusly. They did not need bare breasts and brazen touches to have men at their beck and call. They could hide behind a screen and still cast their spells.

He had to get away from her or he would empty his stomach onto the high table and shame House Bolton before their goodfamily of Frey. Roose would think him a lush, and he would be missing the skin on several toes in the morning. “My lady,” he whispered in her ear. “My aunt. I am of the line of Rogar the Huntsman. You show me no confidence by serving up the boar before I have entered the woods. My pride has taken a grievous wound. I beg your leave, my lady, to give chase to hidden game, and do honor by my ancestors.” He hoped she took his meaning. She wouldn’t if she was slow. No matter. His best Roose face would send her running. It did.

Chastened – _good – _Gatehouse Ami nodded and grit her teeth. She stood up and went to peddle whatever river pox was waiting between her thighs to someone who wasn’t him. _Good._

His belly settled and he was able to truly savor the food without imbibing too much more. How many times had the Freys filled his cup? He had been too busy trying to shoo away the slattern without offending their hosts to notice. This course was small quails stuffed with onions, prunes, and a soft white cheese.

“I hope you are enjoying our family’s hospitality, Ser Domeric,” came a fluttery voice. It was Fat Walda. His new stepmother had come to take her sister’s spot next to him.

“This fine feast is a welcome surprise in the middle of this war, my lady,” he said softly. “The wine and song will surely cheer the men before we march south tomorrow. If they can be roused from their tents,” he chuckled. Lady Walda laughed as well, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“My lady stepmother,” he began, “it gladdens my heart that you will be coming North with us when this war is done. We did not have much time to talk the evening past, but truly, I am grateful that you are my father’s choice. The Dreadfort is very quiet, you see, and it can be quite unnerving if you are alone. Your presence will be quite welcome – there will be smiles and laughter that the halls have not seen since my own lady mother died. The servants do not speak much, and the men live far from the family quarters. When it is just myself and my lord father, it is dreadfully quiet, unless I am playing my harp. Should I want cheer and conversation, I must ride out to Weeping Town or to another lord’s keep. My father is often about his business, and needs silence for his work. Our meetings or suppers together are quite serious, and my father rarely laughs or smiles. Perhaps your company will change him.

“It is quite lonely at the Dreadfort for one who relishes the company of others. A lonely castle overlooking the Lonely Hills.”

“Your words are kind, ser,” she said, smiling brightly. He could tell that she was unused to compliments. By the gods, the Dreadfort needed more smiles! He would compliment her every day if it would make her smile. His father never smiled, and never seemed to like when Domeric did. “Would you tell me more about my new home?”

“The Dreadfort is dark. There are few windows for a castle of its size. And those that we have are tall and narrow and let in little light for at least some part of the day. During the winter, when the sun only shines for a few short hours, some windows get no light at all. All the light then comes from the torches, and the torches are held on the wall by the sword hands of our ancient enemies. Just the bones, anything else would have rotted long ago.

“You’ll have your own suite of chambers, close to the nursery, close to my lord father’s, farther away from mine. The Lady’s chambers. My lady mother’s things are still there, I can help you clear them out. There’s a large portrait of her and my father atop their horses in her solar, you won’t want that there, I’ll take it to my own. And she left all of her jewelry to me for my own lady wife someday, but I’ll pick the ones I won’t part with, her Ryswell things, and we can go through and split the Bolton things between us two. The garnets, the rubies, the cinnabar and rose quartz. We even have some jewelry with pink sapphires! I don’t need it all, I’ll commission new jewelry for my own lady wife. And we’ll have to get you ladies’ maids, we’ll hire a whole team of them. We haven’t had any women servants at the Dreadfort in over ten years, since my mother died, excepting the cooks and washerwomen of course. All the servants, at your command. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

Walda’s blue eyes were wide, bright, and watery; her smile was eager and big, and she was nodding vigorously. It was clear that she’d never had so much to herself among all those Freys. Well, until Domeric got married, Walda would be the only Lady Bolton. She wouldn’t have to share. The thought pleased her, he could tell. Domeric would try to please her and make her smile like that every day. _All ladies should smile as much as possible_, he thought. His own lady mother had smiled so rarely near the end. The thought hurt.

“You must miss your mother very much. What was she like?”

“Beautiful. Dreamy. A proper lady. She always loved songs and stories about knights and heroes, and she shared that love with me. Dark brown hair, tall. She looked rather like my Aunt Barbrey, you’ll meet her when we get back North. When I was very small, she was happier, but she kept losing babies to crib death that she’d borne living, and pieces of her heart died with each of them. She died of a fever, when I was eight, and Father was fighting the Greyjoy rebellion. I got sick too, and when I woke up, I didn’t have a mother or a brother anymore. Roger, his name was. He lasted the longest. We thought he was going to live like me. Almost two namedays, he had. He was already toddling about on my heels and calling me ‘Dommie’. None of the others ever did that. And then he was dead, and my mother was dead, and I was alone with Maester Uthor for six long moons.” Gods, was he talking about Roger? He must have been further into his cups than he thought.

Walda took one of her pudgy hands and patted his own. “There, there,” she said. Could she tell he was sad? Roose wouldn’t like it, he’d want him to hold his face. “I will give you another brother by this time next year.” She squeezed his hand and changed the subject.

“Tell me, will I get to see the room where you keep the skins?” That was bold of her, but she was his lady stepmother, and was entitled to this question.

“Which one? We sort them by house.” Her eyes widened. “I jape. The Starks outlawed flaying many years ago. But the secrets of the Dreadfort are for only the Lord and his sons to know. Your sons will know, but not you. My mother didn’t. I am glad of it. My lady, if my father forbids you to go anywhere, I beg you to obey.” The last bit was serious.

She looked disappointed. “Will I be taught how to flay at least?” Walda was truly throwing herself into her new status as Lady Bolton.

“Can you skin a deer?” She shook her head. “Then we must start there, and the hunt before. We love our hunts, we Boltons. My father will take you hunting, and if he won’t, I will.” She smiled at that. She may be fat, but not so fat like Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse and his sons. She could come on hunts with them.

“Ser Domeric, I am so happy that it is your father I married today, not you, for all that you are so kind and charming and handsome. I know it was because I had the largest dowry as I am so fat. When you walked into the hall, we all thought it was you choosing a bride, and I knew I had no chance. Fair Walda you would choose, or maybe Alyx. But now I’m your stepmother and I will have the pleasure of your company anyhow!” She giggled, and he smiled.

“You are correct that I would have chosen Fair Walda, but not for the reason you think. I squired in the Vale, you see, so we have many mutual acquaintances. We would have had much in common. I even crossed lances with her brother Steffon at a squire’s tourney once. He was older, but I beat him at the tilt. He rang my head like a bell in the melee, though.

“I am glad that you are my stepmother, my lady.” He had no reason to lie.

The dancing was to start then, and his father came out to lead the first dance with Walda. Then Domeric danced with Walda, which was awkward because she was so much shorter than he, and Roose danced with Lady Mariya. Steelshanks danced with Walda next, and his father with Lady Bethario, and he with Lady Alyx. It was only Crakehall Freys in attendance, but there were still so many of them. Thankfully Gatehouse Ami was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t want to dance with her.

He left before too long, during _Milady’s Supper_. He didn’t know which song would hail the bedding, in which he was under no circumstances going to participate. _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown _was the most popular, but others were common too. He’d seen Roose naked too many times during his leeching sessions, but he’d never seen his own mother’s bare form. Lady Walda deserved the same dignity.

He ran into Cousin Robbie stumbling around the corridors as he rounded his way out the castle. Robbie’s red doublet was wrinkled and it looked like the buttons weren’t done up correctly. His shirt was hanging out of his breeches on one side and his long brown hair was tangled like a bird’s nest at the back.

“Dom. Thank goodness! Are you leaving for camp, too?” He was lost, apparently. The Twins were big.

“Aye, Robbie, I am. I remember the way.” He frowned. “Where have you been? You missed the dancing. Bedding hasn’t happened yet.” He quirked an eyebrow. “A serving girl?”

“No. A Frey,” he said. “Knew more tricks than all the girls in Barrowton. Free, too,” he chuckled. “Blonde. Blue eyes. Like the bride, only thinner.”

“Best be on our way to the maester then, Robbie. Your cock will burn when you piss before we’re halfway to Harrenhal.”

“Truly?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Robbie.” He passed on Elmar’s words. Robbie blanched.

“I must thank you, Dommie,” Robbie said. “But you’re no fun anymore. Haven’t been since you came back for good. So serious.”

“I still like to laugh, Robbie. I still go drinking. I’m not my father.”

“Aye, but whenever you visit you always stop after the drinking. Chasing girls isn’t the same without you and that harp of yours. Or your poetry. Uncle Rick and Cousin Rod and I can’t catch the kinds of dams your harp would bring us, and you never even bedded them anyway - ”

“I can teach you the high harp, Robbie. It’s never too late to learn. Or I could let you memorize some of my poems.”

“That’s not the point, Dom. We miss you. What’s wrong, cos?”

“I’m a knight now. Nothing’s wrong. I just won’t help you sully petty lords’ and hill clan daughters anymore. I took vows.”

Robbie sighed. “When’s the last time you bed a girl, eh, Dom?”

“’Twas in Gulltown not six moons ago.”

“Yes, but you have to spend _coin _for that, you don’t have to spend coin when you have your harp or read your poems, where’s the _fun _in it - ”

“I have plenty of coin.” Robbie wouldn’t understand. “Besides, I’m not paying for what I could get with just my harp. Baelish’s girls, they give you an experience.”

“And what experience would that be?” Robbie shook his head. “Look Dom. I know. Grandfather too. Not my father or our uncles or other cousins or the girls, they won’t help for all they would think they can. Just, just talk to us all right? You can talk to us. Don’t just shove it all away behind that scary Bolton face of yours. Don’t just disappear and brood and pluck at your harp and write your poems and play pretend that those Gulltown whores are your lady love - ”

Robbie knew. For true. _How? _He had only ever told Mychel…

Domeric stopped walking. “Speak not of it.” His voice was spider-soft and colder than ice.

Robbie started. “Come on now - ”

“Speak not of it, Robert Ryswell, or put up your steel.”

That shut Robbie up. Robbie put a hand on his shoulder. “As you say, cos.” They walked in silence for a long minute.

“Do you know the thing that ribs me most, Dom? In my heart? That pains me?”

“No, Robbie.”

“Grandfather told me that he’s starting to think I’m unfit for the Rillseat. That I’m unserious about life. Like Uncle Rick.” Robbie was a lusty lad who loved bawdy songs and filthy japes. He was like their Uncle Rick in that way.

“Is he wrong?”

Robbie paused. “Yes. My father trained me, Grandfather too. I know all of the sworn houses, the petty lords. By all accounts I’m respected enough. The smallfolk know my face, aye, they know they can talk to me. I do a good lord’s face, they say, and I’d take the courses that Father or Grandfather would take in most cases, and that my reasons are sound if not. But, I say, I’m not married yet, let me have my fun while I’m not tied down. Got no bastards to my knowledge, no one’s ever come forward with a little Snow for me. I’ll put away the boy’s games once I have a lady wife to tend. I’d be faithful to her and do my duty. My father and I have even worked through a long and short list of suitable choices. Uncle Rick is seven-and-twenty and has never shown interest in taking a wife.

“If Ser Mark had lived we would not have this problem.” Robbie said. “Grandfather liked him better than any of his own sons. ‘Twould have settled all our squabbles. Ser Mark would have just needed to pick one of us to groom after that.”

“Succession by nomination is not without its complications, cos.”

“Aye, but it makes family matters so difficult sometimes. If we did things like the rest of Westeros it would be so easy. The Dothraki of the snow, them southrons call us Ryswells. Worse than the rest of the barbaric, wildling North! I digress. If the first son inherited things, the number of girls I’ve bedded wouldn’t threaten my position as heir. But, you know, tradition. _The First Place to the Strong Horse_, after all.” He wrinkled his nose.

“You’re a strong enough horse, Robbie. You and Uncle Roger.” He patted Robbie on the shoulder. “So who’s Grandfather’s favorite now then?”

Robbie snorted. “Grandfather’s new candidate for heir is Little Rick.”

“Little Rick? Little Rick is nine.” It didn’t make sense. There wasn’t anything seriously wrong with Robbie. “Why Little Rick?”

“Little Rick reminds Grandfather of you,” Robbie said. “Little Rick adores you. Wants to be you. Speaks with a soft voice. Begging Aunt Barbrey to take him on as her page. Puts on that scary face you wear when you think we all need to shut our mouths.” Robbie grinned. “His isn’t as good as yours, of course. Never will be. Doesn’t work without your eyes.

“It’s that cold Bolton blood you have. Makes you the strong horse, Dom. We all know you’re the favorite. Grandfather wishes you could sit the Rillseat after him, but you’re not a Ryswell. I was born a Ryswell for true, but I ride not so well as you, my dear cousin of Bolton.

“You’re everyone’s favorite. Aunt Barbrey especially. So charming, you are. So kind. So loved. One conversation with you, everybody is your friend. She would have named you Lord of Barrowton when you became a man grown if Ned Stark wouldn’t have taken her head for trying to raise the Red Kings again.” Ned Stark wouldn’t have done that. Domeric’s father’s first wife had been a Dustin cousin, the daughter of the one with the longaxe, and Roose’s maternal grandmother had been from the Dustin main line. The Boltons had the best claim after Barbrey, but the Starks wanted the Stouts for Barrow Hall after Barbrey died. The Starks would never give the Boltons any more than they already had.

“The Red Kings never ruled Barrowton, Robbie. The Lonely Hills to the Shivering Sea, aye, and the Bite to the Bay of Seals, but nothing west of Winterfell.”

“Barrow King, then. Or King in the North.” Robbie’s smile was dark in the firelight.

“Careful, cos. Speak softly. That’s treason.”

“Wouldn’t be treason if you had what you wanted.”

“His Grace has two brothers.” He scowled. “And I told you not to speak of it, Robbie.”

Robbie ignored him. “The Ironborn will kill them. How long do you think until they storm the Rillseat and burn Barrowton to the ground? One moon? Two? Some King in the North we have. He never should have let Greyjoy go. The Umbers and the Karstarks, if the Starks said jump, they’d ask how high. They don’t know what it’s like in the west, to wonder if the Ironmen will sail in on the dawn tide and take everything you have. Maege Mormont, she knows, but for all she’d counsel the Young Wolf about the threat of the Ironborn, she wouldn’t go against him. Sycophants, the lot of them are. None of them stopped him, even though His Grace has wind for brains. It’s as you said. You should tell your father to turn us around and march us back up past the Moat to defend the North.

“You’d be a far sight better king than that sod of a Stark we’re saddled with.” Robbie spat. “You think ahead. You’re as smart as your father but you have a heart. People like you. You would never have trusted Greyjoy.”

“Robb Stark is the only man in Westeros who trusts Theon Greyjoy. I’m nothing special, Robbie.”

“How does one come to trust a Greyjoy anyway? How could one be so soft in the head? Did Cat Tully bang his head against the walls of Riverrun when he was born?”

“Softly, Robbie. Careful. That’s His Grace and his lady mother you’re talking about.”

“So you say.” Another long minute of silent walking.

“Robbie?”

“Dommie?”

“Do you know why I can’t have what I want?” Robbie had already spoken of it. He might as well kill his cousin’s curiosity now.

“Because your name is Bolton?”

“Aye, and what do we Boltons do to Starks?”

“You strip them of their skins and hang their hides around your shoulders.”

“And the Starks? What do they do to us Boltons?”

“They take your heads.” Robbie was wrong. Domeric shook his head.

“They sink their wolf teeth into us and rip us to pieces.” He shook his head and sighed. They were at the camp now. “The grumkins and snarks would come back south of the Wall if a Bolton ever took a Stark to wife, or the other way round. Or the Long Night would come again. Something awful at least, or someone would have done it. Eight thousand years is a long time. It will never be. It’s just not done.”

“That’s a load of shit from a horse’s arse and you know that, Dom. Superstition. You’re too smart for that.” Robbie elbowed him in the ribs. “No reason not to try, eh?”

Domeric gave a long sigh. “Let’s just get you to that maester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this week, one chapter a week.
> 
> In the selection from La Vita Nuova, Dante has taken 'Amor' [love] as the master/lord of his soul. I like La Vita Nuova because it is rare for an poet/creator to reveal authorial intent so clearly next to a work. He does your homework for you!
> 
> The Domeric in this story pedestalizes proper ladies the way that many canon characters pedestalize knights. 
> 
> The line about Rogar the Huntsman took me about 15 minutes to write. I am irrationally attached to it.
> 
> The part about the Ryswells having an odd succession structure and being 'the Dothraki of the snow' was inspired by the essay "The Overseeing Widow" in Bran Vras' The Winterfell Huis Clos (http://branvras.free.fr/HuisClos/Barbrey.html). It is proposed that the squabbling Ryswells are squabbling over non hereditary inheritance like the Dothraki do.
> 
> The Ryswell house words are never mentioned so I made up something that sounded appropriate. I imagine there being a whole herd of them.
> 
> It's interesting to me that though House Ryswell is mentioned in AGOT and ASOS (in Ned's memory of Mark Ryswell and Old Nan's story to Bran about the seventy-nine sentinels) we don't hear more about how there's a paucity of Ryswell and Dustin men in Robb's army. It strikes me as something that Cat should have caught onto (maybe she didn't because they all went with Roose and the host at Moat Cailin/the Twins was sooo big). It also strikes me as odd that Cat didn't seem to know about the Ryswells' grievances with the Starks. From how she was portrayed in the books it seemed as if she would have been on top of that sort of thing (grievances and their impact on politics). Maybe Ned just didn't tell her because the memories were too painful. IDK.


	6. Domeric VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of Ramsay's actions back North arrives. Roose strikes a deal with Vargo Hoat to take Harrenhal.

The next morning his father received a bird forwarded from Riverrun regarding the Bastard. Roose shared it with him, of course. Apparently Ramsay had accosted the Lady Hornwood on her way back from the Harvest Feast at Winterfell – _how could they feast on less than half a harvest, _he thought – forcibly married her, raped her, and demanded she name him heir to the Hornwood. Then he locked her in a tower and let her starve. She ate her fingers and then she died. So his bastard brother became the Lord of the Hornwood. Then the Winterfell master-at-arms killed him, which was good. But now the Manderlys were occupying the Hornwood, as Lady Donella had been one of their own, and he just knew that in twenty years he’d still be bowing and scraping and paying reparations to White Harbor trying to make up for this. Perhaps he’d never be able to. But that didn’t matter. Lady Hornwood had been one of the few highborns in the North to treat him as just a boy, just another lordling close to her own son’s age, rather than Roose Bolton’s son. He’d pay the reparations to the Manderlys for her.

It was all so embarrassing. It was all so disgusting. It was all so shameful. The Hornwood succession was already a brewing political mess, and now House Bolton had gotten involved in so vile a manner that the North would speak of it for generations. _My father a raper, the Bastard a raper, the line of Boltons full of rapers. _How cruel the gods were, to set his soul among such company. Domeric Bolton hated rapers. How could one ever treat a lady, a woman, a girl that way? He’d asked Lord Horton why, one day, after attending an execution. _Because their blood is up, boy, _he’d said, _and they don’t care if she says yes or no. She’s there, and her feelings are in the way of what he wants. Or because they like the sound of crying, screaming. Some are like that. _He’d then asked if it was like the cries and screams of enemies, and Lord Horton had shaken his head. _No, it’s the cries and pain for their own sake. The knowledge that you have the power to cause that in another soul. The cries and pain get their blood up. Or the thrill of the chase, the fear in their eyes. And when the blood is up the need is there._

Domeric could not empathize with this for all he understood the words. His blood would cool when faced with a woman’s tears, a woman’s fear, her rejection and her hatred. The promise in soft smiles and demure laughter on a pretty face, that’s what got his blood up. He supposed that he would never understand, since he had no stomach for torture. That’s what rapers were. Torturers.

His father though… what he did was in cold blood, just like he tortured in cold blood. His father had raped Ramsay’s mother because she hadn’t given him his barbaric rights. It probably hadn’t even been good. He did it to prove that he was Lord, and she was nothing. He did it to punish her because had transgressed. To make her obey. His father would not take joy from screams, from pain. He took joy in nothing.

Ramsay’s actions were atrocious. To think that he’d once thought to name that beast a brother. Ramsay was ambitious. Ramsay saw an opportunity. Ramsay had his fun. Ramsay enjoyed it. Ramsay was the type to enjoy the screams and the cries and the fear. It was good that he was dead. He’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his days had the Bastard lived. He’d have to hire a food taster, a personal guard, seal all the windows, never ride out alone again … he’d become Mad Aerys within a year.

After Old Lord Overton had told him to turn around on his way to visit Ramsay, he’d paid a visit to his mother’s family at the Rillseat. He’d told Grandfather what had happened. Grandfather’s face had drained of color. _I thought Roose had told you, _Grandfather had said. Grandfather was well appointed of what happened near Domeric’s home. Grandfather had his spies. _He never told me why, _Domeric had replied. _Dommie boy, _Grandfather said next, _if you ever have the itch for brotherhood and don’t care to board a ship, just come here. Robbie’s here, my Roose too. Don and Young Rod and Little Rick. Don’t go near that Bastard again. He wants you dead. _

He wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be the same, though. Robbie and the rest hadn’t been raised by Roose Bolton. They didn’t have to deal with the whispers of every other highborn they met for the first time. _Do you leech too? Do you have skins in your trunk? What’s it like to flay a man?_ They never feared for their toes, never feared being locked up in the Torturer’s Tower for being late to lessons. They didn’t grow up thinking that the drafts in the corridors were the wails of prisoners in pain, past and present, or breathing in stuffy air that tasted like a death rattle. They knew what it was like to have a father’s love, to be looked at as a person rather than a pet project.

Moments like this made Domeric wish he had been born a Ryswell. Made him resent having been born a Bolton.

***

The men were hungry for blood when they reached the Ruby Ford. _This is where the Last Dragon died, _he thought. _Died for his lady love._ When they were a few days’ out from the Twins, a raven had come bearing news of His Grace’s great victory at Oxcross. Already the bards were singing of the Young Wolf – _Wolf in the Night, _it was called. The news and the song invigorated the men, it got their blood up for the coming battle. That was good.

Domeric’s blood had been boiling for a different reason. Every victory in the West would only provoke the Lannisters more. It would draw out the campaign. Tywin Lannister had even marched out of Harrenhal to defend his home, so their scouts had said. Uncle Roose was one of those scouts. There was no reason to doubt Uncle Roose, so Domeric’s father considered the intelligence confirmed.

They had orders to take Harrenhal, but Tywin was gone. Was their entire host to sit in another ruined castle for moons before hearing from the Young Wolf again? The castle was a strong point for a long campaign in the Riverlands, aye, but they were Northmen, not Rivermen. Already the Riverlords had split from the Northern army and were taking back their own castles themselves anyway. The only people who cared about whether the Trident was secure were Robb Stark, his Tully mother, and her family. Their friends of Frey didn’t care. The Twins would hold if the Trident burned. Again they’d be wasting their time. The Lannisters were not attacking the North. The Ironmen would be, if they were not already. The Northern army did not care to defend the lands they marched through, or its people. They were just more invaders to the smallfolk here. The Northmen should be going home.

Pointless, pointless, it was all pointless. Tywin was gone. There was no Lannister army defending the capital. They could march on King’s Landing. It was less than a moon’s march for an army with a supply train. But they could not save their Princess – they hadn’t the men, they hadn’t the horse. Those were in the West. They couldn’t storm King’s Landing without a united host. Perhaps they couldn’t take the city even with the entire force that had gone south when Ned Stark had been arrested. Both armies, all of them – they were all wasting their coin, wasting their food, wasting their time, as they had been for six moons now. And it was their Princess who suffered. Every day her kingly brother wasted was another day their she-wolf lay chained in a cage. His Grace held the Kingslayer beneath Riverrun in a cell. He could make a trade. He could end the war. He could stop the waste, of coin and food and time and blood. He could send them back to defend their homes before the enemy reached them. He could take their Princess back to Winterfell where she belonged.

Instead, their boy king pranced the pick of the North up and down the Westerlands chasing fool’s gold and false glory while playing at vengeance.

He was wroth. Again, he was in the rear with the small company of horse. Again, he was doing nothing. He was with Robbie and Ronnel Stout. Uncle Roose was with the outriders. At dawn a guard had caught sight of an approaching party coming to their camp, so they formed up. It was a troupe of Essosi sellswords in service to Lord Tywin that called themselves the Brave Companions. _The Bloody Mummers, everyone else calls them. _Their leader was Vargo Hoat, of Qohor. He was called the Goat, as he wore a goat’s head helm, after the Black Goat of Qohor. Around his neck was something that looked like a maester’s chain from so far away, and his steed was a –

“Dom. Dom, _look - ” _Robbie started, ribbing him with his elbow. “_Zorses, _haven’t you always wanted to see one? Do you think if we kill him and the zorse is captured alive we could take it to Grandfather?”

“I know, Robbie, but be serious now. They may have a peace banner but they’re all from Essos, we don’t know if they’re going to honor it.” The Goat was treating with his father. “They don’t call them the Bloody Mummers for nothing.”

“They’re all so _colorful_,” Robbie said. “Are those bowmen all from the Summer Islands? Feather cloaks! How grand! And the Tyroshi - ”

“They cut off the hands and feet of their prisoners, Robbie.” Domeric frowned. “Even we Boltons treat highborn hostages well when we need them.”

“No harm in observation, Dom. The bit about Summer Islanders and Tyroshi could have been useful.”

“Shove off, Robbie. Look, parts of Glover’s van and the Freys are going with the Goat’s company. Father must have persuaded them to turn their cloaks.” He spat. “Sellswords.”

It appeared that Roose’s talk with the Goat was done, for they clasped arms and turned away from each other. His father returned to where the host was standing in formation and waved to signal a retreat to camp.

“Harrenhal will be ours tomorrow evening,” Roose had Steelshanks announce.

***

When they arrived at Harrenhal the first order of business was dispatching with the servants in the castle who had collaborated with the Lannisters during Tywin’s occupation.

There was a maester, an armorer, and a goodwife, and a steward, all shorter by a head, tarred and feathered and up on the castle walls for the crime of serving Lord Tywin as they had Lady Whent. Then the girls – the poor serving girls – were denuded of their hair and their clothes and placed in stocks in a bear pit for the Northmen to take as they pleased, all for being too weak to defend themselves against the Lannister garrison and their lusts. It roiled his gut. It made him sick. He was a knight. He had sworn vows. This would not stand.

But he could not help them. His own father had ordered this.

What use was a knight who could not protect women and the weak? What use was a war to defend a kingdom when the defenders attacked the kingdom’s people? He could not stand down his father, the Mummers, and almost ten thousand men all by his lonesome. It was all so, so pointless, this war.

He wanted to take the keys to the stocks – surely whoever held them could not dare deny the heir to the Dreadfort - down into the bear pit and free all the girls. He knew exactly what he’d say.

_My ladies, _he’d begin. _I am sorry for the horrors you have all endured at the hands of my father’s army. On my honor as a knight, please accept my protection from my father’s men. If any of them harm you or seek to in the future, please let me know. Ask for Young Lord Bolton, or Ser Domeric._ He’d walk into the barracks at dawn and stand staring in silence while the men began to notice his presence, while the chatter died down. When he’d had the attention of all he would look around the room and say in a spider-soft voice, _if I hear that any of you has harmed a woman, I will cut off your balls and make you watch as I flay them. _But he couldn’t do that. His father would hear. His father would override his words and then flay his toes while asking him why he sought to deny the men what they had earned. _Because I am a knight_, he would scream, tears mingling with sweat and streaming down his face. _Because it’s the right thing to do._ _Because the Bastard embarrassed us and we need to prove that we are better than him. _And then Roose would just look at him with the ghost-grey eyes they shared.

But he was a coward, to his shame, when it came to his father. He couldn’t face Roose. Not in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donella Hornwood is the first person to mention Domeric in the entire series. She refers to him as 'young Domeric' so I take that to mean they had met. The exclusion of Lady Donella and her fate in the show really changed show-Ramsay IMO. It took away his cunning/deliberate evil and amped up the 'uncontrollable mad dog' aspect to his character. But maybe some things are just Too Horrible For TV.
> 
> It occurs to me that Lady Hornwood's fate sort of echoes the structure of the girls Ramsay chases in his games. Lady Hornwood was hunted through the woods, too.
> 
> Domeric channels Jaime Lannister in this chapter. I imagine Jaime's 'so many vows' problem would be rather common in GRRM's world.


	7. Domeric VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric interacts with a lost princess, a wronged walrus, and a friend in a haunted castle.

His father had taken a new cupbearer named Nan, alias Weasel. She had dressed as a boy, but was actually a girl. Nonetheless, Roose had put her in a Dreadfort uniform and taken her on as a page. Apparently Elmar had proven himself to be too squeamish to be useful at his father’s leechings, while this Nan did not seem to fear anything. An investigation revealed that she had been one of the Harrenhal servants who had killed the Lannister guardsmen and helped to free the Northern hostages the night before the main host arrived.

During the first leeching, the second night they spent in the castle, he looked at the girl. There was something familiar about her that he couldn’t place. She had the look of the North about her, sounded like a northerner too. So he talked to her after they were dismissed.

“My lady,” he addressed her, “Nan. Where are you from? I believe I have seen you before.”

“I’m not a lady, my lord,” she bristled. “And I’m from Maidenpool. My lord.”

He shook his head. “You speak like a Northerner and this is a Northern army. Won’t be any fooling us.”

She flared her nostrils and exhaled from her nose. “Barrowton, my lord. My mother is a maid in service to Lady Dustin at Barrow Hall. My lord.” Then she looked down and he couldn’t see her face.

Her answer made him smile. “I know Barrowton well. When I was your age I was a page there, like you. Lady Dustin is my aunt. Which maid is your mother? Danna? Rosie? Serena?” Then he furrowed his brow. “What are you doing here, Nan? How did you get here? Lady Dustin did not march south with us. Your mother shouldn’t have been a camp follower in the train. Neither should you. We should get you home,” he said.

Nan just shook her head, looking away. She scrunched up her face and chewed her lip. “Came down with my father, I did, my lord. Not my mother. Just before the war. On my father’s business. To do some work as a favor to his friend. A stonemason he was, my father, and there ‘ent much stonework in Barrowton. Then we got stuck, my lord. Because of the war.”

“Terrible. You should not be here. Does your father let live?” She shook her head again. “All the more reason for you to go home. I’ll write to my aunt. We’ll take you back, my lady, somehow.” He furrowed his brow again. He looked at her face. He could not place it among all the faces of Barrowton that he knew.

“Why haven’t I seen you in Barrowton, Nan? I try to visit as often as I can.”

“I worked in the kitchens when I got old enough to work, my lord. My lord did not visit the kitchens often. And I beg pardon, my lord, if you please, but my lord only saw the pretty girls, not the little girls.”

He laughed. “You have me there, my lady. I won’t keep you when you’re on my father’s business. But I promise you, Nan, I will find a way to bring you home, if you would have my help.”

She scurried away and avoided him for the rest of his stay in the castle. It weighed on his heart. She was a child. He had wanted to help. It seemed as though he couldn’t help anyone.

***

Lord Tywin had held the prisoners from the Battle on the Green Fork captive at Harrenhal. The Lannisters had treated them well – they had been given free run of the castle. Ser Slower – _Ser Wylis, I must call him Ser Wylis, I must respect the Manderlys_ – did not look the worse for wear, for he had the liberty to visit the kitchens as he pleased (and visiting the kitchens pleased Ser Wylis very much). The first time he ran into Ser Wylis, Domeric begged a moment of his time.

“How well did the Lannisters keep you abreast of news outside?”

“We were told about the king’s campaigns. When the armies marched, victories and losses, the like. We heard about Oxcross.”

“They did not tell you of Stannis and Renly? Or comings and goings in the North?”

“No, ser. Why? Is there news for me?” Domeric nodded grimly. Roose was never going to take the initiative to tell Ser Wylis of this. He’d wait to be confronted and explain that the Bastard had been far away, that Roose had no knowledge or control over Ramsay’s actions, and that he had had little part in raising him elsewise. That he was a mad dog who had been put down anyway.

“Ser Wylis, I think it best we find somewhere to sit down.” They were near the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, so the search was concluded quickly. Then Domeric sucked in air and explained what the Bastard had done to Lady Donella.

“I know that there is nothing that could ever give your family satisfaction for what my father’s bastard did to your cousin. I met the good lady on a few occasions and was very distressed to hear the news. For many reasons.” Then he paused. “There is little likelihood that my father will ever make recompense on behalf of House Bolton. He will pin this on Ramsay and Ramsay alone.” He looked straight into Ser Wylis’ face.

“But Roose will not live forever, and when I am Lord of the Dreadfort and you are Lord of White Harbor, we will come to an understanding. Things can never be made right, but I promise you that House Bolton will be making gestures of goodwill to House Manderly for a very long time. I swear on my honor as a knight.”

Ser Wylis nodded stiffly, thanked him, and grasped his arm. “We are all grateful that you’re not your father, lad,” he said. Then he rose and retreated to the part of the hall where food was typically served.

Whenever he needed to swear on his honor, Domeric would swear on his honor as a knight. He could not very well claim his honor as a Bolton. His honor as a knight was the only honor that he had. And even that was frittering out, day by day, as they persisted in this hopeless war.

***

Domeric took solace in the fact that Harry was alive, and hale, and well. He was easily as vigorous as he had been six moons ago.

“What did you do while you were here, Harry?” They were eating dinner in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, as he always did when the Goat wasn’t there. Sometimes Harry joined him, Robbie, and Uncle Roose. Other times Harry would eat with the Karhold men, who were much relieved to find their commander alive. One of them had already told Harry about the fates of young Torrhen and Eddard.

“Walked the battlements, mostly. Climbed the towers that weren’t where the Old Lion was staying. Excellent view of the countryside here. Do ye know that if ye go all the way to the top of the Wailing Tower, ye can see the copse of weirwood trees on the Isle of Faces? A tiny tiny speck of white in the middle of a dot of green, in a blue-black patch near the horizon. Very queer looking eye, the God’s Eye is.”

Harry had also spent much of his time in Harrenhal’s enormous godswood. “Prayer does a man good in times like this,” he had remarked. “War. Loved ones lost. Idleness tempting. Idleness breeds broodiness, and broodiness sucks the life out of you. Drains yer strength. Ye might think that prayer is idle,” and here Harry stabbed a fork into a hunk of meat and pointed it at Domeric, “but it is anything but. Prayer is active. Prayer hones the mind. Even if ye don’t hear them, the old gods work on ye when ye pray and look into their faces. They turn ye into who ye need to be when their answer comes.”

After that, Domeric started visiting the godswood with Harry as part of his daily routine. He’d rise before dawn, shave, and see to his other grooming before making for the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, where he would meet Harry outside the double doors. Then they’d walk in silence to the godswood, passing over the stream and through near ten acres of oaks, pines, and sentinels before arriving at the gigantic heart tree at the center. Its sinister face snarled with hateful intent, and its sappy red eyes flashed malice and ill will. _Pray, fool_, it seemed to say to him. _Pray and give me blood. Mayhaps one day I shall act on what I hear and grant your heart’s desire. _He and Harry would kneel down, eyes level with the tree’s twisted mouth, and begin their communion with the old gods. Harry would simply hang his head, but Domeric would take out one of his daggers, slash his palm, and smear it into the weirwood’s cracked bark.

When it was time to go, he’d clean his hand in the stream, and they would go train or drill with the men in the Flowstone Yard for a few hours. Then it would be time for the midday meal, and then he’d either meet with the Dreadfort officers, wander about the castle, sup in the mess or with the lords in the Hunter’s Hall if there was a raven that required a commander’s meeting, and then go attend a leeching if there was a need. If there was no need, he would make for Harrenhal’s extensive library and keep up his correspondence with Aunt Barbrey and Lady Walda, tuck into a book or scribble out a poem or two. _Child, none of my maids are married to stonemasons. None of their children are named Nan, _a bird from his aunt said one day. The girl had lied to him. That was strange.

Often he found himself consumed by his writing, as if the castle itself seemed to hold the candlelight still and constant for hours and hours before sucking it all away with only a breath’s notice, leaving him to put away the books or the parchment and fumble back to the door in the near total dark. Then it was time for bed, and then he’d sleep and do it again.

Many times he’d shuffle about the castle and its grounds, avoiding all, taking in the environment, breathing in the history that hung thickly in the air like smoke or steam or whatever substance ghosts were made of – for there were many ghosts in Harrenhal. Once, he’d walked his horse out to where the tiltyards stood, mounted up with an old training lance, and pretended that he was riding the joust in that ill-fated tourney from the year of his birth. He had been named champion, of course, and so he’d swung around before the crowd of shades and placed an invisible flower crown atop his missing lady love’s head.

Other times he would walk about the grounds and the ruined gardens, looking up at the castle’s five towers as he went. _Widow’s Tower_, _Wailing Tower, Kingspyre Tower,_ _Tower of Ghosts_, _Tower of Dread – _and then he smirked.

_Every tower in the Dreadfort is a Tower of Dread,_ he thought. _This place feels like home. _He rolled his shoulders. _It’s cursed._

Houses Hoare, Qoherys, Harroway, Towers, Strong, Lothson, Whent… all gone now. People said that Lady Whent had only fled, but in all likelihood she and her guard had been slaughtered by that rampant wolf pack, or had been killed by outlaws, clothes stripped from their bodies, coin and food and horses and carts looted from their camp. Janos Slynt was the lord of the castle now, but he was freezing on the Wall, and any sons he may have had had not come to claim it. Even individuals who had held the castle for but a short time succumbed to the curse or fed its evil. Rhaena Targaryen, left to die, Mad Danelle and her bloody baths, the Witch Queen Alys Rivers and her vile magic – it made him wonder what foul fate would befall Lord Tywin, what would befall his father eventually. Already they had seen the remains of Tywin’s child-killer castellan Lorch ravaged in the bear pit. Perhaps this war would bring down all of the Lannisters, from the Old Lion and his children down to little Joy Hill. Perhaps it would bring down the Boltons – all of Roose, Ramsay and himself.

Then he felt cold. Not the comfortable, homey nip of a Northern summer, not the bone-chilling bite of a Northern winter, but a different sort, one that began in his head and dripped down to pierce his heart and radiated outward to his skin, like pain from a stab wound. _Pray, fool_, a voice in his heart said, and he shivered.

He felt a kind of dread, then, that he hadn’t felt since he was a boy, since before he’d left for Barrowton. The dread of his childhood, the dread of home – the dread of ghosts. Ghosts wailing in pain, ghosts staring in silence, ghosts breathing on your throat and touching you in your sleep. Truly, Harrenhal felt like home! It must have been the blood in the mortar. It must have been all the death. All the torture within the walls. All that pain those stones had seen.

Ghosts, ghosts, Harrenhal was filled with ghosts. It was just like the Dreadfort! But where the Dreadfort was like a sealed crypt, choking with stuffy air, with the walls trapping you inside, Harrenhal was like a looted tomb, cracked open by thieves and spewing dust and foulness that clung to all that followed. When you got out of the Dreadfort, you were _out of the Dreadfort_. The ghosts didn’t follow. Harrenhal, though – the ghosts in Harrenhal stuck to you like shadows. Somehow he felt he’d never leave Harrenhal behind.

He didn’t want to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an uneventful chapter. The beginning is a shout out to the Tywin/Arya scene from the show. It always bothered me why Arya never revealed herself to any of the highborns walking around Harrenhal when Roose was there. She had a lot to choose from - Roose, Kyle Condon, Wylis Manderly, Harrion Karstark, Robett Glover, Helman Tallhart, Ronnel Stout. She wanted to talk to Robett but she never did. Arya had been to White Harbor twice, and Ser Wylis would most likely have been there. She could have talked to him too. 
> 
> It's understandable why she wouldn't talk to Roose, who is very creepy. Roose picked up on the my lord/m'lord distinction with Theon in ADWD, but he doesn't mention it to Arya in ACOK. Probably one of his games. Why nobody else in the castle picks up on a northern accent is beyond me, though. Maybe they just didn't have any reason to talk to her.
> 
> I find it interesting that she didn't think to speak to Kyle Condon at all, especially since he would have been an obvious highborn around Cerwyn men all the time, and Castle Cerwyn was only a half day's ride from Winterfell. In Bran II ACOK, Bran mentions that Cley Cerwyn was a "friend" to the Stark brothers, so presumably Arya would have known him well. She might have been able to persuade Kyle Condon about who she was if she gave enough details about Cley and his behavior. Who knows, maybe she just didn't recognize the Condon sigil. Should have payed more attention to lessons with Maester Luwin :/
> 
> The Barrowton excuse may have worked on Tywin, who'd likely never been there and wouldn't have cared, but it wouldn't have worked on Domeric Bolton. I'm extrapolating on her "not proactively asking for help" to "refusing help out of some twisted logic". Maybe that's wrong, IDK. Maybe she's just creeped out because he has a scary Bolton face.
> 
> Harrenhal is a creepy, spooky place. How does a person who grew up in the also creepy, spooky Dreadfort react to it? I imagine that people like Roose who feel like they belong there would do just fine. But if you don't feel totally at "home" at the Dreadfort you probably won't like Harrenhal too much. The dragonfire and huge ruin aspects probably don't help. 
> 
> The description given for the Harrenhal's godswood and in particular its heart tree are interesting. They were obviously there pre-conquest, pre-castle, pre-Andal invasion. A huge tree in a huge forest will be super old. The rafters and beams are said to be made of weirwoods three THOUSAND years old. Why did Harren the Black choose the shores of the God's Eye to plant his mega-seat? Was it because the Isle of Faces was just next door? Why would he do that if he was a Drowned God worshiping Ironborn? Regardless, something spooky and old gods related is going on in that castle, which was basically a ginormous blood magic engine made more potent by whatever dragonfire does.
> 
> I am releasing chapter 8 today. I wrote a lot and fixed a chapter that wasn't working. Updates will continue to be on Fridays.


	8. Domeric VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The northern army at Harrenhal receives a string of Very Bad News.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you him that so often spoke  
of our lady, talking to us alone?  
You well resemble him in voice,  
but the face seems to us another man's.  
And why do you weep so bitterly,  
who from yourself stir pity in others?  
Did you see her weeping, that you cannot  
hide your sorrowing mind within?  
Let us weep and go by sadly  
(who tries to comfort us commits a sin),  
for in her weeping we have heard her speak.  
She has a face so filled by pity,  
that he who wished to gaze on her weeping,  
would fall dead before her.
> 
> \- Dante Alighieri, 'Are you him that so often spoke', La Vita Nuova

The Ironmen had come. As the weeks wore on, more and more birds trickled in, a string of bad news, one after another. _Dark wings, dark words indeed._

First came Moat Cailin. They learned about this in a bird from the Twins not a moon after they arrived at Harrenhal. Helman Tallhart cursed and avoided Lord Bolton’s eyes.

“We never should have left.” Tallhart said it, but everyone was thinking it, and what was more, everyone agreed. The commanders and lords were meeting in the Hunter’s Hall poring over maps. Victarion Greyjoy had taken his longships east up Saltspear and the Fever River to take the castle from the north. Helman Tallhart’s garrison, which had been left behind at the Twins and the Moat when they first left for the Battle on the Green Fork, had come to meet the main host on the way to Harrenhal.

_None of us should be at Harrenhal_, Domeric thought then, as he had many times in the days they’d been there. There was nothing to do here. None of the Northmen cared about the Riverlands or the Riverlords and their castles. They all cared about the Moat, though. They should have all stayed at the Moat. They should have stayed in the North. They should have taken the Princess back as soon as Ned Stark died and gone back home…

When the meeting was over the lords shuffled out the door. Tallhart looked the worst – Torrhen’s Square was not very far from the Moat, and many of his men were here – while Robett Glover and Kyle Condon looked shaken. Robbie caught his eyes, and then Domeric looked at Ronnel Stout, and then at Uncle Roose. The Rillseat and Barrowton were both in the vicinity of Saltspear. He felt nervous.

Robbie gave voice to one his thoughts. “His fucking Grace has truly done it,” he said though gritted teeth, both fists clenching. “Theon fucking Greyjoy. What a fucking idiot. Which one of my sisters do you think will be carried off on those fucking squiddy ships, to be raped day in and day out and never to be seen again? Branna? Beth? And what about Aunt Barbrey, all alone? His fucking Grace. His fucking Grace. On your knees for his fucking Grace, the King in the North…” No one else saw but Robbie’s eyes were starting to shine and he was blinking quite rapidly.

Bile rose in his throat. Would _Aunt Barbrey_ become a salt wife? She was getting on in years, yes, with some wrinkles and grey hairs, but she had always been beautiful, and she had never borne a child. She kept up her riding and had not run to fat like some women her age. What if a grizzled old sailor thought her young and tight enough and stole her away to his ship after burning down Barrow Hall? The thought made him angry.

“I’m sure they’ll all be fine, Robbie,” he whispered, but he wasn’t sure at all. They were here. They couldn’t do anything. They were rotting in the open grave that was bloody _Harrenhal_, and all that mattered to them was under assault if it wasn’t gone already.

Then Uncle Roose clapped a hand on both of their shoulders and squeezed. “Lads,” he said, “it’ll be all right. No harm will come to the Rills while Father and Roger and Rick are there. Your sisters are safe, Robbie. Father sent less than three hundred horse here, remember? That’s counting you and me, Robbie. The rest of them, and the best, are at home. No one’s being carried away.” For all that it always grated when Uncle Roose called him ‘lad’ – they were nearly of an age, after all, Roose was hardly two-and-twenty – he was glad for his uncle’s comfort.

“Barb sent less than three hundred south as well. No one’s burning down Barrow Hall. Close your mouth, Dom, I know you were thinking it. Right, Stout?” Apparently Ronnel Stout was behind them too.

“Aye, lads,” he said. “Lady Dustin and Barrowton are well protected. It’s just me and the boys here. Only as much as the Stark levies required. We’ve enough men back home to keep the Ironmen away. No need for such treasonous talk, young Robert.”

The Rills and Barrowton were lucky. Torrhen’s Square and Deepwood Motte were not. The next bird that came announced how Deepwood Motte had fallen to Asha Greyjoy – _what the fuck did the Ironmen teach their women anyway _– and now Lady Sybelle and little Gawen and Erena Glover were in the kraken’s clutches. Oh, and Larence Snow. What was more, Theon fucking Greyjoy had raided the Stony Shore himself, had Benfred Tallhart _drowned _of all things, and had gone on to have some of his men strike Torrhen’s Square in a feint.

“‘Our garrisons from Winterfell and Castle Cerwyn rode out to defend Torrhen’s Square, leaving an opening for Greyjoy to take Winterfell with only a handful of men,’" Lord Bolton read aloud and looked up at them all in the Hunter's Hall. "It appears as though our little princes are now captive, along with the whole of the Stark household.” So his father had read in a bird forwarded from Ser Rodrik. The whole hall was silent.

Everyone knew who was to blame here but nobody said it. No one could do anything. Lord Helman’s face was ashen. It seemed like he’d fall apart once Domeric’s father dismissed the meeting. Robett Glover was shaking in place and doing his best to breathe evenly. His face was slowly purpling. Ser Kyle Condon handed Glover a goblet of wine which he summarily dropped.

“Perhaps his Grace should be making provisions to secure the safety of his other heir,” Domeric tried with a whisper. Everybody looked at him and nobody said anything. It was a bad time, the wrong moment.

Roose turned to stare at him, a lip curling. They had discussed this before. “A mission such as that would require orders directly from his Grace. To risk bodily harm to the Princess without his express permission would be nearing treason. The Lannisters will not harm her. She is a valuable highborn hostage.

“You may all go.”

Lord Bolton had spoken. All they could do was pray.

So pray they did. Most all men who were not part of the White Harbor contingent came to the godswood at least sometimes during their occupation of the castle, but only now were they coming together, at the same time, every day. It was no matter fitting them all, for the Harrenhal godswood was twenty leagues in size. Uncle Roose, Robbie, Ronnel Stout, and the Dustin and Ryswell men were the first to join Domeric and Harry after the Moat had fallen. Then the Karstark men, to join their lord. After news of Winterfell, Torrhen’s Square, and Deepwood Motte came, Robett Glover and Helman Tallhart started coming with their men, and Kyle Condon and the Cerwyns too. Even some Dreadfort men like Steelshanks came since Domeric was there.

They became a communal ritual, their mass meetings in the godswood. They bound the Northmen together and reminded them what, in the end, they were fighting for, even if they could do no fighting now. They kept them all sane amidst the painful, maddening idleness. Each day the lords would kneel in front, closest to the snarling heart tree, where all the men could see them. Each day they would read out their public intentions, namely those pertaining to other people and places known to all – that is, highborns and their castles. In the meantime they would pass bowls around for the men to collect their blood into. By the end they were passing around hundreds of bowls.

Harry would typically lead these meetings since he had the loudest voice among all of the lords.

“For Lady Sybelle and the Glover children and their safety,” Harry would boom, and they would all repeat.

“For the liberation of Deepwood Motte. For the liberation of Winterfell. For Prince Brandon and Prince Rickon and their safety. For Princess Sansa, her safety, and her honor. For Princess Arya, her safety, and her honor. For King Robb, his victory, and his wise counsel. For Lord Bolton and his wise counsel. For a bountiful harvest. For strength to last the winter. For the safety of our women, our children, and our homes. For the dead.”

Then they would all cut their palms and give their blood to the weirwood’s roots. It was all very somber. It was all very moving. There in the Harrenhal godswood, they were one North, united behind one cause. They were one army against one enemy – an enemy they could do nothing against. Then they would break apart, and the day would begin.

***

The worst bird came forwarded from the Twins, written by Domeric’s uncle-by-marriage, Little Walder Frey, Lady Walda’s full-blooded brother, and his cousin, Big Walder Frey, of the Blackwood line. They were both wards at Winterfell, but the raven bore the pink seal of the Dreadfort.

Theon Greyjoy had burned Winterfell to the ground. He killed the little princes and burned them too, mounting their charred corpses on the castle walls. Greyjoy had many of the Winterfell retainers put to the sword, including their maester. The Northmen who had been left behind had assembled to liberate the castle from the Ironmen, but had taken many casualties. Cley Cerwyn was dead, as were Leobald Tallhart and Rodrik Cassel. At the last moment the Bolton garrison led by Ramsay Snow had come to relieve the spent Northerners. Ramsay had all the ironmen flayed and killed, took Greyjoy prisoner, and was holding the Frey boys and Winterfell’s remaining people in safety at the Dreadfort.

_My brother the hero, _Domeric mused bitterly. _Ramsay the raper, the savior of Winterfell. Who would have thought? Here I am, the knight, and I have done nothing while so much evil has happened._

“It would seem your brother is not dead, my son,” Roose said softly. “That is good news.”

“So it is, Father,” said Domeric. They had discussed this already. It was bad news for him. He had thought himself safe from the Bastard. The Manderlys would not like it either.

“It’s the _only _good news,” said Kyle Condon, who was shaking his head. Ser Wylis and Domeric exchanged a look. “Cley… Cley… A boy. House Cerwyn, down to Jonelle and a few cousins… Gods only know if Jonelle can yet bear babes… Does she know?”

“Lady Jonelle was left at the Twins with Lady Walda,” said Roose. “She would have heard this news before we did.”

Helman Tallhart had his face in his hands. “Leobald… First Benfred, now Leobald. I thought they would both be safe up there. Damn the Ironmen! _Damn them! _Gods be good, let Eddara and Berena and the boys be safe.”

Domeric looked at Robbie, whose mouth was pressed into a thin line. Uncle Roose’s jaw was set tightly. None of the Ryswells liked the Starks, especially not Catelyn Tully’s get, but they would not sink so low as to celebrate the deaths of two little boys. Still, their faces betrayed the looks of those whose dark predictions had come true. Ronnel Stout’s face was similar. Robett Glover still looked angry, as he had looked at every meeting since word of Deepwood Motte had arrived. _I told you so, _any one of them could have said to the Young Wolf, couched in the proper courtesies, of course. _I told you so, _they would have said, but none of their company had even seen His Grace since the turn of the year. That honor went to the Greatjon and Rickard Karstark, whose lands were on the Narrow Sea, not the Sunset Sea. They could probably care less about the Ironborn so long as they hadn’t breached Winterfell’s walls. Better for them, even, with the other Northern lords spending their power while the eastern shores remained safe. Galbart Glover or Maege Mormont might have said something, but who knew whether they would have been heard over the chorus of voices shouting _AYE! _in their boy king’s ear.

Truly this was a crisis for the North. The little princes dead, Winterfell taken, houses Cerwyn and Hornwood in ruin, all with winter upon them with no way back home. They couldn’t very well ferry their way across the Bite with Lady Lysa – _another Tully, who would have guessed, the only one worth anything is the Blackfish - _refusing all ravens from the North and the Rivermen.

Surely this was the time to say something, to receive the input of all. Domeric coughed. No one looked up. Then he coughed again, and a few eyes were on him, so he started speaking.

“If I may, my lords,” he began, “it would seem as though securing the Princess’ person is a matter of utmost political importance now. She is His Grace’s heir. Should His Grace fall in the West while Princess Sansa remains a captive of the Crown, we will have a Lannister King in the North. We might not even have a kingdom of the North anymore. Surely Lord Tywin will want to bring the North back into the Seven Kingdoms if he wins this war. If Joffrey puts a Lannister in the Princess’ belly, eight thousand years of Stark rule will be over and done with when this generation dies.

“We shouldn’t wait for His Grace’s instructions. He’s too far, we’ll never reach him in the field in time. We wouldn’t know which castle to send a bird to, or how long it would take a rider to get to his camp. At this moment, every day matters. We should send a party down to King’s Landing before Stannis - ”

“Stannis is more likely to make peace with His Grace. His Grace has no quarrel with Stannis. The Princess will be safe should Stannis take the city.” It was Ser Aenys Frey. Domeric turned on Ser Aenys and tried his best to look like his father, cool and dispassionate and above all, _correct_. He would not be interrupted again.

“We have no leverage over Stannis,” Domeric said. “And Stannis does have a quarrel with His Grace. Stannis styles himself the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. He will not make peace with His Grace so long as His Grace remains King in the North and of the Trident. Stannis will want His Grace to give up his crown, which, by all accounts, he will never do. What’s more, the lords who named him such will not let him. No. It’s better for the Princess to remain the Lannisters’ hostage rather than Stannis’. She is highborn. They will treat her the same.” _As long as Joffrey is not dishonoring her. Stannis would never do that._ But that was only a suspicion that he could not voice if he was to keep sounding credible. “If the Lannisters keep King’s Landing, we still have the Kingslayer to trade. If Stannis takes the city, which our intelligence says he is like to, we will have nothing to trade her for, except His Grace’s crown.

“We must send a party before Stannis arrives and the capital descends into chaos. We have plenty of Lannister armor here from when Lorch held the castle. We don’t have enough men to storm King’s Landing, but we don’t need them. We only need ten good men, maybe fewer. We would need stealth and speed. It’s less than a week’s hard ride to the capital from Harrenhal with a party that small; we could disguise ourselves as Lannister soldiers and sneak into the Red Keep. There are maps here, of the city, in the library, I’ve seen them. Books with descriptions of the Red Keep, as good as we can get without blueprints. It’s possible. We could break the Princess out, we could bring her here, or to Riverrun, before she’s trapped.” He took a breath and was about to speak.

Ser Kyle Condon stared at him agape. “What makes you think the King would trade the Kingslayer for her if the Lannisters beat Stannis, after all these moons? Or that the Lannisters would make the trade? His Grace’s campaign in the West has gone on for far too long. He has taken too many castles, done too much damage. Who’s to say the Lannisters won’t make His Grace give up his crown like Stannis would?”

Personally, Domeric was of the opinion that Robb Stark didn’t deserve his crown, not after all this, but he wasn’t about to say so. Condon’s question, though, he could answer. He did pay attention in these meetings, after all. “His Grace has taken many hostages in the West. He has more than just the Kingslayer, he has more Lannisters. Ser Kevan’s children. There are other highborns too. We could trade them all for just the Princess. The situation has changed now that Prince Bran and Prince Rickon are dead. She’s one mortal wound away from becoming the Queen in the North. She’s worth all of them combined. We need her. We must have her back.

“There’s loot too. Gold. Jewels. Precious things. His Grace’s host, they can’t have sent it back North, they can’t have spent it all. They have it in their baggage trains. We could give it all back just for the Princess. Gods be good, the Greatjon sacked _Castamere! _It’s full of silver and gold, enough for generations! Surely the lions would give us back our Princess to regain Castamere.

“We have enough hostages to trade. We have enough loot to afford a ransom. If we can’t rescue her before Stannis and the Lannisters do battle, we’ll have to pray that the Lannisters win just so a trade is still possible. Before the Princess is trapped and we truly cannot do anything for her anymore should our King fall.”

Domeric looked around the room. His father’s gaze was inscrutable. Roose seemed like he was waiting for someone else to talk before he adjourned the meeting. Robbie stared at him, his face knowing. The Freys looked annoyed, the rest either puzzled or like they were thinking over his words. Ronnel Stout gazed thoughtfully at him, raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth.

“Lad, I’ve known you more than ten years, that’s the most words I’ve heard you string in a row since I’ve laid eyes on you.” That comment was not helpful. At that moment, Domeric couldn’t care less if Ronnel Stout started to suspect anything. He didn’t care if the whole North did. They had to get their Princess back, or it would be too late. Their princes were dead. They couldn’t go home. The Moat was closed. The host was split. They couldn’t storm King’s Landing, no matter who held it. They had to do something. He didn’t care how many words he’d have to string together to get them to do something.

Domeric’s father leveled a cool stare at Stout. “My son can speak at length when the occasion arises.” Then Roose looked around the hall. “I would hear any additional objections to Domeric’s words before we consider sending any ravens to Riverrun or to the West.” Domeric had reason to hope at his father’s remark. On the one hand, the birds meant a delay and a chance that his plans could be rejected. On the other, they hadn’t been dismissed outright. His father was plainly deliberating. There was a chance that they could move on this.

“My lords of Bolton.” It was Harry. Harry was looking at Domeric and speaking slowly, clearly chewing on his words. “I do not think the other lords marching with His Grace would take kindly to this. They have fought and bled for the loot they have taken. Their men too. It would betray the men to give up that loot. They earned it. And anyone who knows the Greatjon well will know that he will be loath to give up Castamere. And the hostages… Pardon, my lords, but I know my father. My brothers are dead. The Kingslayer killed them. My father wants Lannister blood. He wants the Kingslayer dead, and if not him, any Lannister hostages they have, any Lannisters they can kill in the field. He will not accept a trade. Not for the Kingslayer, not for any Lannister. He will oppose it every time the issue is raised. He will howl for their execution. That is his way.

“Condon is correct,” continued Harry. “The western campaign has gone on too long. Not just for the Lannisters, but for our brothers out there. They are too invested. They have spilled too much sweat, too much blood. They will not stop until they have total victory in the field. They will not see it all undone. They will not give up all their gains. They will not give up the Kingslayer and give him the chance to take his revenge. Not for a girl of four-and-ten who is no use in battle.” Domeric schooled his face. His throat was tightening. He knew Harry had the right of it – at least the part about what the Karstarks and the Umbers with the Young Wolf would think, but they were all wrong. The Young Wolf and his coterie of yes-men were all wrong, about the campaign in the Westerlands, about the Kingslayer, about the Princess. _She is worth more than a field commander. She is worth more than the Kingslayer. She is worth more than Castamere, more than all the loot, more than all the hostages together. She is not worthless like they are saying. Not when her own father would have saved her. Not when her husband would be king._

Couldn’t they all see? Why couldn’t they get their priorities straight? Why did Ned Stark die with Joffrey’s claim on his lips when all knew he supported Stannis in his heart? Why else than to save his daughters? Why insult Ned Stark’s memory by taking vengeance in Ned Stark’s name and dooming sweet Sansa, who Ned Stark loved so dearly? Was it all so pointless then?

Domeric wanted to say more but Roose’s face stopped him. His case had been made. There were no more pieces to be said. Only pleas and begging.

“Thank you, Lord Harrion.” His father’s voice was soft. “Does anyone have anything else to say?” No one answered. Nobody was looking at Domeric anymore. They were all looking to Roose.

“We are done here then.” They all left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It must have really sucked to be Helman Tallhart in canon. To be at the Twins, the closest possible southern castle to Moat Cailin, and then to be summoned away just before the Ironmen attack your home and kill your son and younger brother. Then Roose sent him on a suicide mission and he died. A lot of the tertiary characters have awful lots of it.
> 
> It also must have sucked to be Robett Glover too. To be a staunch Stark supporter only for the Stark leader to predictably but unintentionally get your home destroyed and your entire family seized. His kids are age three and one. So little :( I am puzzled by the fact that he was so anti-Bolton and complicit with the Manderlys in the Davos-Rickon plot in ADWD. From an emotional standpoint it seems like he ought to have backed whoever held Theon Greyjoy and could trade for his family back. But then it also says something about him that he is so loyal to the Starks that he conspires for them despite all that. Especiallly since Glovers don't seem to have died in the original RW according to the wiki. 
> 
> Also, what happened to the Westerlands loot? Did Robb, the Greatjon, & co march to Riverrun and the Twins with it? Obviously they couldn't take Castamere with them (why they took it in the first place is beyond me, it doesn't seem like such a feat, especially since it was still /underwater/). Whoever gets their hands on that loot, whether it's just on the goldroad or outside the Twins or in the Riverrun vault, would be filthy stinking rich.


	9. Domeric IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric spends time with his Ryswell and Bolton family members and gets an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any dialogue you recognize is from ACOK, Arya X.

Lord Bolton eventually sent a raven to Ser Edmure at Riverrun asking for his input on both a trade and a possible rescue operation to King’s Landing. As Harry predicted, exchanging the Kingslayer and any combination of hostages for the Princess was summarily rejected. Apparently, standing orders were to keep the Kingslayer clamped in irons with no questions asked until His Grace returned from the West. Ser Edmure deferred to His Grace on the question of a possible rescue operation. They’d needed to send a raven to the Crag, which was where His Grace happened to be at the time, but apparently His Grace had taken a wound and was in no fit state to make any sort of decision.

And so the waiting continued. Stannis’ confrontation with the Lannisters came and went, and with it their opportunity to rescue the Princess. The good news was that the Lannisters defeated Stannis and still held King’s Landing. The bad news was that they had achieved this victory with the help of House Tyrell. Thanks to Ser Edmure’s play at glory at Stone Mill, Lord Tywin’s force was able to turn south and meet up with the Tyrells to save the city. With the might of the Reach behind them, the Lannisters had enough hope of beating King Robb in the field to deny a trade of the Kingslayer for the Princess.

The Crown’s supply situation was no longer as dire – they needn’t rely on just the West and the Crownlands to feed them when the Tyrell stores were full. While it was a good thing that the Princess was no longer betrothed to Joffrey Baratheon, his betrothal to Margaery Tyrell was undoubtedly worse in the short run. The Lannisters could keep Princess Sansa captive in the capital while the Old Lion, the Fat Flower and Randyll Tarly swung around from the southwest to crush the Northern host. They could then proceed to retake the Riverlands and smash the rest of those loyal to His Grace’s cause, free the Kingslayer, take more highborn hostages from among the Northmen and Riverlords, and dangle them all in front of His Grace and his lady mother to dictate surrender terms before even needing to consider trading the Princess.

They shouldn’t have waited. They shouldn’t have bothered asking Ser Edmure or His Grace. They knew the answer before they even asked. Her family had abandoned her. They all had, now.

***

Ser Helman and his men had been getting restless, so they were ordered to take Castle Darry back from the Mountain’s men. Lord Robett and the Glovers had been sent to Maidenpool to sack the city. Ser Helman and Lord Robett were the only ones who got to do anything. The sight of their departure one morning left the remaining men itching for something to do.

Domeric stabbed his fork into a bowl of soup during the midday meal. _I have to get out of here. _Robbie ribbed him with his elbow.

“You’re doing it again. Stop.”

“Doing what?”

“Brooding. All melancholy like.”

“I’m not brooding, I’m thinking. You should try it some time.”

“Thinking so hard you’re trying to eat soup with a fork?”

“It’s those mushrooms, Robert. Very hard to catch with a spoon.”

“Nonsense. You can catch mushrooms with a spoon… Anyhow you’ve been strange lately. Pray tell why?”

“Strange?”

“Yes. Ever that last meeting about the Stark boys. The one where you talked. You rarely talk at meetings, you. Since then you’ve been lingering in the godswood in the mornings, spending half the night in the library while somehow having the energy to be a demon in the yard. Tell me, have you been sleeping? Or have you thought your way into sleep that gives twice the rest an hour?”

“There’s nothing to do here. Might as well do the things that there are to do, well, better. Better praying, better training, better reading and writing.” Here he took a swig of his ale and grinned darkly. “Better training means better sleep. You should know that.”

“That I do.” Robbie made a point of swirling around his spoon and then pointed it at Domeric’s face. Apparently he had decided that men at war did not require table manners. “Say, why don’t we go for a walk? Just you and me, cos. You could point out to me where all of those historical things happened. You know, point at a spot and say, _that is where Prince Aemond first spotted Alys Rivers_. _That is where Mad Danelle kept her bats._ You’re good at that sort of thing. Besides, been a while since we had a chat, for all that we see each other every day now_._”

“No, thank you, Robbie. I’d rather not.” Domeric wasn’t going to let Robbie of all people see how much this castle unnerved him. Robbie would never let him live it down. He’d be the butt of all the japes whenever he visited the Rillseat, and then his father would hear of it, and if there was anything Roose Bolton would not abide, it was japes at the expense of House Bolton. _The flayed man is to be feared_. Not merely respected. Not loved. Never laughed at.

“Just a chat in the godswood then. Or wherever you like to go.” Robbie was the one who was acting strange. For all that Domeric often told his cousin to sober up, to be more serious, Robbie was never one for deep conversations. Robbie was who you went to for fun and games, not anything you truly cared about. Oh, he’d listen all right, but then he’d tell some jape and start laughing again. He wasn’t Mychel Redfort.

“And what would you like to chat about, Robbie?”

“Nothing in particular. Do I need a reason to want to spend time with my dear cousin of Bolton? Haven't had as many opportunities as I'd like since you packed off to the Vale. We used to be close, before.”

It wasn't like Robbie to be like this. Domeric had the sinking suspicion that he was reporting back to Grandfather. Why Grandfather would pick Robbie of all people as an informant, and to inform on Domeric of all people, was outside the realm of logic. Robbie would make a terrible spy. Domeric would answer Grandfather’s questions if asked.

“I suppose not. I will go, if it pleases you.” So when they were both done with their soup they traipsed off to the godswood, and they talked about nothing in particular along the way.

When they arrived at a clearing by the stream, far away from the heart tree, Robbie’s feet shuffled on the ground. He cleared his throat. “So. Look. About the Princess - ”

“I told you that I would not speak of it.” Domeric glared but Robbie met him with a hard, brown stare of his own.

“I will speak of it,” Robbie said, “because you need to hear it. We both know that nothing can be done about her situation. All I’m telling you to do is to stop worrying. His Grace has lost the war already. He’ll die, and we’ll get her back as our Lady of Winterfell, loyal to the Crown, or he’ll live and be forced into the Crown’s terms. Even if those terms involve her remaining in the South, she won’t be in danger. She’s a lady. Nobody harms ladies. It’s like you said. But she won’t be a Princess anymore, or Queen in the North. And she won’t need rescuing. For her it will be almost the same as if this whole war never happened. Cat Tully wanted to send her South anyway, everyone knew it, even though Starks don’t belong in the South. So… so… if you really did give up, earlier, before even trying, like I think you did, it will all be the same. You and Lord Bolton can go back to putting offers together for Lord Royce’s daughter or that Hunter girl. Nothing’s changed. Don’t be stupid, all right? The next battle your father throws – don’t look at me like that, we both know your father has been throwing these, they’re all pointless anyway – don’t go running off to play the hero or do something else stupid like that. You’re too smart to be stupid.”

Robbie was gripping Domeric’s shoulders then. Domeric just continued glaring at him coldly. “I’m not stupid. I don’t need you to remind me and you know it too. I’m coming back North with you, don’t worry.” Domeric shrugged one of Robbie’s hands off. “So who is putting you up to this? You’re not one to lecture. Was it Grandfather? Aunt Barbrey?” It couldn’t have been Roose. Roose would just order Domeric himself.

Robbie scowled at Domeric and then sighed. His grip on Domeric’s shoulder slackened. “You really think I need orders to watch out for you?” Robbie shook his head and his face was forlorn.

“We’re done here, Robert. Let’s go.”

***

The next morning Elmar accosted Domeric on his way out of the godswood.

“Ser, there will be a leeching in an hour. Lord Bolton requests your presence. Best not head to the yard this morning, ser, or you’ll be late.” Elmar looked out of breath.

“Thank you, Elmar. Come join me to break your fast? It looks like you could use a meal.”

Elmar shook his head. “Thank you, ser, but I can’t. I’m off to the yard to see to his lordship’s armor. I left some rust spots on it last time and his lordship was displeased. I’d best be more careful this time around.”

“All right then, Elmar. Off with you. Don’t forget those tricks I showed you, with the sand.” He ruffled Elmar’s hair. “Come find me if you don’t remember.”

Elmar grinned and nodded in his chinless way. He was growing on Domeric. “Thank you, ser!” Then the boy ran off.

Domeric ambled over to the Hall of a Hundred Hearths where breakfast was being served. He received a thick cut of boar, a loaf of dark bread, and a slice of hard cheese on his trencher. Most of the other lords were already in the yard, but Uncle Roose was still at one of the tables. His face was slightly flushed and his hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. Uncle Roose often led scouting missions around the castle. It appeared that he had only recently returned from his latest excursion.

“G’morning,” Uncle Roose said, and Domeric nodded, tucking into his food. The two ate in silence for a few moments. Domeric liked that about Uncle Roose. He didn’t speak unless something needed to be said. Granted, as the leader of the outriders, he often had things to say, but he rarely bothered with pleasantries.

“Any news?”

“Little and less. Much is the same. Villages and fields burning or losing folk to that damned wolf pack. Food situation here likely worse than back up North. The Rills and Barrowlands will be the only places with anything to eat between here and the Wall three years from now.” As if for emphasis Uncle Roose took another hearty bite of ham.

“Aye,” said Domeric, as he broke off a piece of bread. Even at Harrenhal the quartermasters were saying their supplies wouldn’t last the year with the amount of men they had. The food situation would be bad everywhere north of the Crownlands excepting the Vale. It would be particularly terrible in the North and the Riverlands, save for those lands whose lords had the coin to import food. Thanks to Lady Walda, House Bolton had that coin.

“Shall we be off to the yard?” 

Domeric shook his head. “I am required at my lord father’s leeching session.”

Uncle Roose smirked at him. “Wouldn’t want my goodbrother to miss you, then.”

They both finished their meals and bid each other goodbye. Then Domeric made his way to the Kingspyre Tower and started up the stairs. He knocked on the door after reaching his father’s chambers. Nan – if that was truly her name – opened the door. His father lay naked on the bed. The man who was not a maester – Qyburn, of the Mummers – was placing the translucent leeches onto the inner sides of his father’s arms and legs, one by one.

Domeric was surprised at how small his father looked there in the bed. He supposed it was because the chamber was crowded, and many in attendance were tall or large. There were a few Freys in attendance – Aenys, Jared, Hosteen, Danwell, Ronel Rivers, and Harys Haigh – and most were of Crakehall stock. The Crakehalls made most other men look scrawny, and Domeric could be called broad himself. For all of the times he had attended leechings before, this time felt queer, for never had Roose looked quite so pale, quite so thin. When Domeric had been a boy, Roose had loomed tall and strong over the entire Dreadfort; nobody could defeat his father. Looking down onto the pallid body on the bed, it struck Domeric that most of the men in the yard could dispatch with Roose Bolton with a mailed fist to the neck. When had been the last battle that Roose had fought himself? When had his father last trained in the yard? Domeric couldn’t remember. Certainly not from this campaign. Perhaps it had been at the Dreadfort…

Domeric focused on the fattening leeches’ slow flush to pink. The Freys were all griping about how the Young Wolf had lost the war, how Stannis’ defeat at the Blackwater and the loss of Winterfell had doomed them all, how their army should flee Harrenhal before Lord Tywin could come starve them out. Nothing said was new; his father had heard it all before, from Domeric’s mouth, and others’ too. Half the army could tell that Robb Stark, the King Who Lost the North, was done. Everybody knew about the food situation, knew how the Lannister-Tyrell alliance doomed them all to bend the knee or die before seeing home. Those who didn’t admit it were in denial. The cause was lost.

The leeching was complete. The Freys, Uncle Roose, and Robbie were dismissed. His father bid Steelshanks, Qyburn, and Domeric stay while Nan the liar removed the leeches.

“There is a letter from your lady wife,” Qyburn said.

“You may read it,” Domeric’s father said.

“‘I pray for you morn, noon, and night, my sweet lord, and count the days until you share my bed again. Return to me soon, and I will give you many trueborn sons to fill the Dreadfort’s halls and gladden dear Domeric’s lonely heart.’” While Father never answered Lady Walda’s letters, which arrived daily and were always the same, Domeric kept a lively correspondence with his stepmother. He told her of his travels and his hobbies and their lands and she would tell him of her family and provide choice gossip from around the realm that they were likely not to hear during war. It made Domeric smile to know that she remembered him in her notes to his father. It would be like having a true family at the Dreadfort again.

“I will send a letter of my own,” his father said to Qyburn.

“To the Lady Walda?”

“To Ser Helman Tallhart.” A rider from Ser Helman had come not two days past to announce the Castle Darry’s fall to the Tallhart forces. “Tell him to put the captives to the sword and the castle to the torch, by command of the king. Then he is to join forces with Robett Glover and strike east toward Duskendale. Those are rich lands, and hardly touched by the fighting. It is time they had a taste. Glover has lost a castle, and Tallhart a son. Let them take their vengeance on Duskendale.”

“I shall prepare the message for your seal, my lord.” Qyburn left to see to his task.

His father’s order was strange. Duskendale was to the southeast, deep into in the Crownlands. While the Riverlands’ only true borders were the Neck, the Mountains of the Moon, and the foothills at the base of the Westerlands, Duskendale was without a doubt in Lannister control, as was everything east of the Kingsroad once south of the God’s Eye. To get to Duskendale an army would need to cut its way through fields and farms between Antlers and Sow’s Horn. So far away from the Riverlands, and only a minor port so close to King’s Landing, Duskendale wasn’t strategically valuable to His Grace at all, especially since Robett Glover had already gone and sacked Maidenpool. The North didn’t have a fleet; they couldn’t very well blockade the Crownlands ports or use them for resupplying. Besieging Duskendale was tantamount to throwing Tallhart and Glover the lion’s den expecting them to be eaten.

This could only mean one thing. His father had a brain, after all. Roose Bolton was turning his cloak and purposefully throwing good Northmen away.

“I will hunt today,” his father announced. “Domeric, Walton. You will both join me.”

“Of course, Father,” Domeric said as Steelshanks nodded in assent. “Boars or stags or foxes?”

“It is wolves I mean to hunt. I can scarcely sleep at night for the howling.” Roose said as he dressed for the day_. _“See to your own preparations and come join me at the stables.”

“So I shall, Father.” Domeric left and returned to his chambers.

As he dressed, Domeric mused on this latest development in the war. His father’s disregard for the Tallhart and Glover men disgusted him. Surely there was a way to change factions without sacrificing so many lives. Such changes were common in war; the Dance of the Dragons saw no less than eight houses flip when the tides turned. The best way would be for his father to persuade Glover and Tallhart to flip along with him. Tallhart might be possible given the situation with the Ironborn at Torrhen’s Square. Robett Glover would be more difficult, as he was only heir to Deepwood Motte; his brother Galbart was lord. But it was Robett’s wife and children that the Greyjoys had captive – it was Robett over whom House Bolton had leverage. The Bastard held Theon Greyjoy, after all. _If _the Bastard was smart about hostage treatment – and after the affair with Lady Hornwood, that was a more than fair question – they might be able to trade Greyjoy for the Glovers, and possibly Larence Snow. Lord Balon’s son was worth much.

Bringing over the Tallharts, Glovers, mayhaps the Hornwoods and even the Cerwyns to the Lannister camp could buy them the use of the Lannister ships and possibly the use of the Redwyne fleet to rid the krakens from their shores. Where the Boltons went, so would Barrowton and the Ryswells; if Roose just tried to turn what he could of the army they had, they could deliver seven houses to the Crown – nearly half the North. House Manderly and House Karstark were lost causes, but with Tallhart, Glover, Hornwood, and Cerwyn they had a chance. With the Crown on their side, they might secure food from the Reach to replace the harvests they left to rot. If only his father’s first impulse was to help his rivals to their feet rather than holding them down from an arm’s length away, they might truly salvage a peace and a sure footing for winter out of this bloody mess their king had made. Perhaps the Crown would even give House Bolton the Lady Sansa once the Young Wolf and his rebels were defeated by good, loyal Northerners…

It was a good solution.

*******

Domeric met his father and Steelshanks at the stables. Robbie and Uncle Roose and a few other Dreadfort men were in their hunting party. They all mounted up and started southeast for the wood on the God’s Eye.

“Father, a word, if I may?” He rode up next to Roose. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps he could still change things.

“My son. You may.” They were nearing the woods.

“Have the ravens to Glover and Tallhart already gone out?”

“I saw them fly. Why do you ask, my son?”

“Forgive me father, but I do not think the move is wise.”

“Oh? You would have me rescind the orders?”

“Aye. There are better uses for Robett Glover and Helman Tallhart. You could… include them in what you are planning. Tell them that the Lannister and Redwyne fleets could free their castles. The whole western shore of Westeros hates the Ironborn, the Rock and Highgarden will want to see them put down too. Have Ramsay trade Theon Greyjoy for any highborns. Tallhart and Robett Glover could be convinced in this way. The Hornwoods too, since the Glovers have Larence Snow. Kyle Condon is also reasonable, and he controls the Cerwyn men. We could take four houses over with us, Father. Anyone who was touched by the Ironborn. We’d have most of the western half of the North and a good bit of the east.”

Roose drew to a halt. Rhaegar kicked the ground. The rest of the party was far behind, and they stood beneath the dappled light of the forest canopy. Roose’s face was crossed with shadows. “And how do you know what I am planning, my son?”

Domeric's mouth tightened. “I do not claim to know, Father. I only ask that you include others in your plans.”

“The orders have been given.”

He had to try harder. “Father, you are making a mistake. We could unite half the North behind us, we will never hold them this way – ”

“You speak out of turn.” Roose wheeled his chest around to stare Domeric in the face. He did not look so small in his riding leathers and atop a horse. “The decision has been made. Talk no more of this. Come, let us be on our way.”

“Yes, Father. My apologies.” It was done then. His father would turn Houses Bolton, Dustin, and Ryswell on the Young Wolf and damn all the rest. Better for House Bolton when all the others emerged from winter starving, weak and broken. Better for House Bolton if the rest of the North was doomed.

This was disgusting. His gut roiled and bile rose in his throat. He could not abide by this. He’d have to join the Duskendale campaign and warn Robett and Ser Helman. Would they believe him? It would not be likely. For all that the other Northern lords distrusted Roose, it was usually due to his bearing and their suspicion that he kept the old Bolton ways. His father had never given any true, credible cause to doubt his loyalty to his liege lord. There would be no proof, no past actions to point to, only a spooking suspicion. And Glover and Tallhart were baying for blood.

But Duskendale made no sense. Duskendale was worthless. They’d have to see. But what if they didn’t? He’d be marching off to Duskendale and his death with the rest of them. His whole time here in the South would prove pointless. He wouldn’t have done anything to defend the North, to serve their king, to save their Princess.

The Princess. Duskendale was two days’ hard ride away from King’s Landing. He could join the march to Duskendale, show himself briefly during the battle, and then steal off to the capital. He’d made as much plans for such an operation as could be made. He’d be alone, but he could do it. Then he started to breathe in hope that warmed his blood from his lungs to his fingertips. He wouldn’t need to fight for his father. He wouldn’t need to fight for his king. He would fight for his Princess. His presence here would have a purpose.

He only participated half-heartedly in the hunt, spearing only one wolf that looked more like a fox. It must have been the product of a true wolf and a coydog. He was usually more enthusiastic about these things, but his mind was somewhere more important.

“The fur can be dyed to Bolton red,” he commented to his father. “The pelt is enough for a few collars or muffs. Or I could add it my pink wool cloak, or to the sable.”

“All fine choices,” Roose replied. He had nine wolves to himself. “I mean to make the rest into a blanket.”

“I apologize again for my outburst earlier, Father. It was wrong of me.” Roose regarded him coolly. “I would ask to participate in the campaign to Duskendale.”

Roose only stared. “Why?”

“This war has given me no opportunity, Father. I do not know when I shall next have the chance to test my abilities. I seek no glory, only knowledge, Father. You yourself were proven at Stoney Sept and at the Trident. I only wish to deserve the same respect you are afforded.”

“I see.” They were approaching the castle again, and his father deliberated for many long moments. “I will allow it. Ser Kyle and Lord Harrion will also be joining Tallhart and Glover. Join the Cerwyn party and stay near Ser Kyle. I mean for you to return, my son.”

“Of course, Father.” He dismounted. "I mean to do you proud."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will be leaving Harrenhal next time. You could call it Domeric's own private defiance at Duskendale! Sorry, I love puns. 
> 
> This chapter and the next one can be considered the end of the canon timeline.


	10. Domeric X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric leaves Harrenhal. The Battle of Duskendale.

That evening the Freys were in an uproar. All underneath the Wailing Tower one could hear the shouting. A bird had arrived from Ser Ryman Frey announcing that Robb Stark had broken his betrothal pact by marrying Lady Jeyne Westerling at the Crag. The Westerlings, an old First Men house quickly fading into obscurity, were sworn to the Lannisters. _Of course, _Domeric thought. _After so many mistakes, what is one more? _He would have laughed darkly if it wasn’t so discourteous, but the Freys were his stepfamily now, and propriety required he be offended on their behalf. The Young Wolf was truly finished now. His brothers were dead. The North was lost. The Lannisters and the Tyrells were allied against him. He had no way to retrieve his sister. His highest commander was about to destroy a large part of his army. Now he’d lost the largest fighting force in the Riverlands and drawn their ire too.

It would have been tragic if it wasn’t such a farce. At this point Domeric no longer cared. He was a king’s man no longer! So he continued on his way to prepare for his departure.

The first stop he made was the treasury. Domeric made away with one hundred gold dragons’ worth of coin into a large purse. It was too easy. He felt no remorse for stealing from Lady Whent; if she was not dead, the Princess was her kinswoman; if she was, Harrenhal belonged to the Tully family. Surely neither Ser Edmure nor Lady Catelyn would object to this use of their gold and silver.

The next stop he made was the kitchens to ask for bread, meat, and cheese. He also refilled his wineskins. No servants dared voice questions. He packed several days’ worth into a saddlebag. On the march the army would take forage from the fields, but he would take what little the smallfolk had for winter for his own purposes.

Then there was the library. He stole a map of King’s Landing from the time of Jaehaerys II. It was old, but it was the most recent map that Harrenhal had, so it would have to do. He’d wanted to take along a history book with a chapter that described the layout of the Red Keep, but it was too large, and with too many excess pages to be useful. Instead he settled for copying down notes of the description into the moleskine where he collected his poetry. He didn’t have the heart to tear out the pages of a text some poor maester had spent so long transcribing.

Finally he went to the armory. At this time of evening there was nobody there. Piled in a corner were a few kits of Lannister armor taken off the dead from Amory Lorch’s garrison. He picked one that fit well enough and packed that into his saddlebag as well. This presented a problem. He’d be riding out in his own armor, but would need to carry the Lannister armor as well. He supposed he would have a draft horse travelling with him with his tent and other supplies, but it would be cumbersome to take along to the capital and would likely slow him down. No matter. He’d figure it out on the road.

It was time to sleep then. He was so giddy that it did not come easily. Nonetheless, a full night of rest was necessary, so he slid on a dressing gown and asked a guard to send him Qyburn.

“A sleeping draught,” he requested when the erstwhile maester arrived.

“Nerves, my lord?” Qyburn said.

“No. Anticipation,” he smiled, and from Qyburn’s reaction it was terrible. “My preparations have left me restless.”

“At once, my lord.”

“I must wake at dawn, Qyburn. Not too much. You have my thanks.” Qyburn would tell his father about this most like but that didn’t matter. The next time Domeric saw his father would be moons from now. Domeric would have rescued the Princess and his father would be a traitor. There would be a reckoning.

Once Qyburn returned with the draught, Domeric downed it whole and lay back into his furs. He closed his eyes. When they opened again it was dawn.

***

“Lord Robett. Lord Helman.” Domeric did not leave the commanders’ tent along with Ser Kyle and Harry. He really shouldn’t have had any business being there, what with having no men in the company, but he was still Lord Bolton’s son. To exclude him could have been construed as an insult.

“Lord Domeric,” Tallhart answered. “What business have you?”

Domeric eyed both Glover and Tallhart flatly and explained how Duskendale was worthless. “Choose a better objective.”

“They are the king’s orders.” Tallhart was scowling.

“After the king sent Greyjoy away, you would trust the king’s orders?” Domeric eyed Robett Glover, who was pressing his lips into a flat line.

“The king has shown no small measure of tactical acumen. He has won many victories in the West.”

“The king is not here. Duskendale has no value. We only make enemies by scouring the land here. At least the Lannisters are hated enough that raiding the West helps Stannis and endears us to Dorne.”

“You are green, Lord Domeric, with a green boy’s heart. This is no different than what we did at Maidenpool or Darry.” What they had done at Maidenpool and Darry was despicable. The rivermen were already starving. The winter would only freeze their burned homes and desecrated corpses.

“His Grace is also green.” Domeric looked to Tallhart to Glover and then settled his gaze in the middle distance between their heads. “And Maidenpool and Darry were closer to Harrenhal than to the Tyrell-Lannister army. The Crown will hear of this when riders from Antlers or Sow’s Horn sight our column and will catch us before we reach the sea. We will not be able to escape.”

“Then we must pray we are simply failing to see what His Grace sees.” This was hopeless. Others take them, he was done.

“Very well. I beg your leave, my lords.” He was done with the army. He was done with this war.

The host burned and raped and looted its way down to Duskendale. At night when they made camp they would dine on livestock from the fields they’d passed, on bread made from flour stolen at swordpoint. The men would take the girls they had dragged away from the local farms and villages into their tents and pass them around until they were too sore to move, too tired to scream. Helpless cries could be heard from all directions throughout the night, no matter where you slept. It was awful. In the morning, if there was a wind from the north, the scent of ash, charred meat, and burning flesh would hang in the air and spoil the dewy autumn freshness. Before they broke camp, they would break their fast on stolen eggs –the fowl from the coops were taken and cooked for the lords – and cut oats from silos that they had torn down or burned the day before. When they resumed marching, all the smiles were grimaces, all the laughter harsh.

Domeric started writing an alternate version of _Wolf in the Night_ in a minor key. It told of how the great pack a hundred strong went off to attack a village while the pups were left to drown in the den during a flood. He’d left his harp at Harrenhal but his fingers remembered where they would need to go. The chorus was all about howling – that of the pack on the hunt, that of the suffering maidens, that of the bereft parents and shivering orphans and the pups that died in the water. The wolf in the cage, the pup that was lost. He couldn’t sing it aloud, of course, not here, where morale would suffer, but if this war ever ended he’d stop by all the taverns from the base of the Lonely Hills to the mouth of the Weeping Water to Saltspear and make sure every singer north of the Neck knew the words. Maybe it would reach the Riverlands too.

As his father had bade him, he rode in the Cerwyn party. Ser Kyle’s countenance was grim. Domeric had wanted to ask why they were burning the smallfolk’s homes, why it was necessary to let the men rape the farm girls, but he held his tongue and thought better of it. The license to destroy southern lands and lives was more than half the reason any of them were there. Duskendale was no true objective. If Domeric questioned any of it – if he was noticed refusing to participate – they his very presence here would be protested. His father would hear of his behavior when the remaining men returned without him, and when they met again Roose would know of Domeric’s disobedience. What’s more, Roose would know that Domeric had lied to his face; it would not do to have left ostensibly to prove himself and have word spread of his distaste and reluctance. No, it was better to play along and simply disappear in the chaos of battle.

After what seemed like eons after they had left Harrenhal, the host made camp outside a village not three leagues from Duskendale. The Cerwyn host was near the rear of the column, furthest from the town. After setting up his tent, Domeric tied Rhaegar to a tree near a burned-out house just out of sight to the east of the column. In the floor of the ruined hovel, he dug a hole in which he stuffed all his supplies that would not be useful during the battle – the Lannister armor, the map, the coin, his other sets of clothes, and all but one meal. He put the dirt back in the hole and spread it flat as the rest of the floor. He dragged the broken bed over where the hole had been. Satisfied, he went back to the tree, marked it with his knife, and rode back to camp to take what sleep he could.

The next morning the host pushed its wide trail of smoke and charred fields southeast towards the sea. As they approached high noon the silhouette of the port could be seen on the horizon, the drum towers of the Dun Fort and the seven spires of the Duskendale sept looming over the rest of the short buildings, sunlight glinting on Blackwater Bay behind it all. The ground sloped downward towards the water and when the wind came off the sea, the scent of salt and shit and birds mingled with that of burning crops.

As the day wore on, they in the rear heard shouts ringing from at the front, the distant clang of steel on steel. Glover’s van must have encountered the Duskendale garrison.

Suddenly a Karstark rider came crashing near.

“Ser Kyle,” he started. “Ser Domeric. We’ve been ambushed. Tarly, Leygood, and Ambrose were waiting for us in the wood between the fields and the city. Came up on either flank and cut us off from Lord Robett and Lord Helman. Word is Tallhart’s dead. Lord Robett sounded the horn for retreat but last we saw Tarly and Leygood were blocking him from the north. If he’s a way out it’s west towards the Kingsroad.”

“How many?” Ser Kyle said. The Karstark man grimaced.

“We don’t know. We… we sent out riders but none have returned.”

“And Lord Harrion?” Domeric didn’t bother hiding his worry over his friend.

“Fallen or taken. He was pushing us back but Ambrose caught us. Our men’re taking as many as they are but discipline is broken. The last orders we have were to find you lot.”

“Understood. Thank you,” said Ser Kyle. Ser Kyle turned to Domeric. “Take the other mounted men and have them circle the foot. Ride to the rear and help lead the retreat. I’ll send a Cerwyn banner bearer with you. The men will rally to you. You’re visible.” Ser Kyle sounded the horn for retreat.

“Aye, ser.” Domeric flipped down the visor of his helm.

Ser Kyle did likewise and drew his sword. “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” he shouted.

The men in their company drew their swords roared in reply. “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” They began to fall back.

Not an hour later Domeric heard a rumble. He turned to the Cerwyn man bearing the black battle-axe on silver. “Do you hear that?”

“It’s just the Karstark men coming to join us.”

“No, it’s not coming from behind.” Domeric strained his ears and motioned for a halt. “It’s coming from the northwest,” he said lowly. “Send word to Ser Kyle. Tell him someone’s here - ”

But it was too late. They didn’t see them because they were marching up the slope, and the enemy host was behind the horizon. He looked at the banners. Green apples on gold, red apples on gold. The Fossoways.

Domeric shouted through his visor. “Form up! Hold the line!” Hopefully Ser Kyle and the rest would catch them soon.

The enemy charged. “_Fossoway! Fossoway!” _Came the shouts. “_King Joffrey_!”

“_Hold the line! Push forward if you can!” _The Cerwyn men were forming up behind him. He lifted his shield and raised his sword. Where was Ser Kyle? Where were the Karstarks?

It didn’t matter where they were because they weren’t fast enough. The Fossoways were on them.

“FOSSOWAY! KING JOFFREY!”

“THE KING IN THE NORTH!” Domeric hoped his voice was loud enough. His father always turned to Walton whenever shouting was required. He had Rhaegar rear up kicking and brain a Fossoway man with a heavy hoof. It was a good thing Rhaegar had mail of his own else he might have been easily pierced. Around him, the Cerwyn foot were clashing with the Fossoway men. Whenever a red apple or green came too close, he would slam the point of his shield into their shoulder, or do his best to take a limb or head.

At first it didn’t happen often, but as the day wore on, they lost their fear. Fossoway had put the veterans in the back. The green boys, though – they took one look at Domeric and his armor, at his pink shield, stayed their arms and stared.

His father’s voice whispered in his ear. _At the sight of the flayed man, they flee_. He cut those down easily. It grew more difficult once he got to the seasoned men, though, but when Rhaegar kicked them into their fellows, or when Domeric painted their joints red they were dispatched soon enough. _Green apple, red apple. Green apple, red apple. _

Then the sea of apples split. A knight on a tall white courser came forward to engage him. The knight’s armor was gilt plate. His helm sported a tuft of bright green feathers, and across his breastplate stretched a great green apple made up of a thousand glittering emeralds. Branches and leaves of enamel twisted their way around the apple and up and down his arms and legs.

It must have been a commander trying to lure him out before he could take any more men. How many Fossoways had he killed? He did not know. He didn’t care. He had to fight. He had to win, not the battle, but his own life. He had to rescue his Princess. Being lured away suited him.

Domeric spurred Rhaegar onward before the Fossoway knight could press him back. The white courser reared, but Domeric raised his sword and shield and by some blessing of the old gods slashed its right leg before the hoof could do too much damage. The golden apple knight turned his horse and ran it out of the fray before Domeric could wound it anymore.

“_Come at me, barbarian,”_ came the knight’s voice. The knight’s sword came next, and Domeric’s rose to meet it. Again and again their swords met. He was getting tired.

The white courser reared once more. This time, Domeric’s shield was broken, but his sword cut the horse’s right foreleg to the bone. He urged Rhaegar back. A pink stain darkened to red and spread up the creature’s leg, and muscle and tendon and artery and vein came out flapping like broken harpstrings.

The white courser fell, crushing the golden knight beneath it. For good measure, Domeric walked over to where the knight lay dying, knocked his sword away, took off the golden helm, and slit the knight’s throat. Domeric sighed, sheathed his own sword, unstrapped the broken shield, dismounted, and took off his helm. His face was hot and sweat-slick hair clung to his forehead and neck. He took his waterskin out of its saddlebag, took a long swig, and looked around to get his bearings.

The Fossoway knight had led him far back up the slope, within shouting distance east of where their camp had been. Two fields over and he would be at the little hovel where he had hidden his things. _A true blessing_, he thought. He must sacrifice something truly worthy the next time he saw a weirwood. Rhaegar had done enough that day, so instead of mounting up he walked the horse to the hovel and let him eat and water at his leisure.

Once inside, he dragged the bed away from the hole and started digging. Out of the hole came the Lannister armor, the map, the coin, one set of clothes, and the food. He stripped off his own armor and into the hole it went. He considered placing Rhaegar’s mail into the hole as well, but thought better of it. He wouldn’t need it where he was going, and he could sell it for more coin. He refilled the hole and dragged the bed back in place. Too tired to eat, he took another swig of water. As he drifted off to sleep, he thought of all the people he might have seen for the last time. Elmar, who most likely would not be marching North with them once the Ironborn were done with. Lord Helman, likely dead. Harry, who he had not spent as much time with as he’d have liked, either dead or again a prisoner. Ser Kyle and Lord Robett, on the run for their lives.

His rest that night was hard and dreamless. When he woke in the morning he broke his fast on bread and water. Then he packed up his supplies, saddled Rhaegar, and made towards the sea for Duskendale.

The path the battlefield cut through the farms and fields was muddy and littered with dead men and a stray horse. It was a blessing that what streams there were run clear instead of red. When the wind blew away the fresh scent of dew, he was assaulted with the smell of smoke from the north or the stench of dirty brine from the sea. When the town was on the horizon to the southeast, he encountered another fallen knight. Three black thunderbolts danced on his orange surcoat. A Leygood man. Underneath the surcoat, however, the knight’s mail was plain and dark. It would be useful, so Domeric stripped it off the dead man and threw it into a saddlebag. In the first copse of trees with sufficient cover, he slipped out of his lion’s skin and donned the dark plate. The Lannister armor he would put on closer to capital. Here it was better to be anyone.

He encountered a living man less than a league to the town. Domeric put on his best Valeman’s lilt and asked the man – a farmer, it looked like, off to see whether his land had survived the battle – after news of the town.

“An’ who be askin? Seems to me you’se a man o’ war, ser.” The farmer was scowling at him suspiciously.

“Ser Donner Stone. ‘M a hedge knight out o’ Gulltown.” Creighton Redfort had the most rhythmic, singsong lilt he’d ever heard. He’d need to sound like Creighton now, if Creighton had been lowborn. “Fought with Stannis, I did, and then after ‘e lost, tried me luck with the wolves. Now they’se lost too, not sure what I’ll do. Back to Gulltown, most like.”

“Well, Ser Stone, best o’ luck to you then. Town’s not far, the Reachers caught the wolves ‘fore they could do what they did at Maidenpool. Word is the Mountain’s men’re hunting ‘em down now. We’ve no love for the Mountain here,” the farmer spat, “but better him than the wolves. Hope the Mountain catches the pack o’them ‘fore they get back te Harrenhal. ‘S good you’ve left ‘em.”

Domeric thanked the farmer and proceeded into Duskendale. In the market square, a peddler had set up a stand trading armor picked off the dead. Domeric took out the black ringmail that would be Rhaegar’s no longer.

“Two gold dragons,” said the peddler. He asked no questions. The deal was done. Between the square and the water was a tall inn bearing a sign with seven crossing swords. Domeric took Rhaegar to the stables and had a boy see to the horse’s needs after taking his saddlebags in his arms. He went inside.

“One night. How much?”

“Depends. Alone?”

“Aye, a room with a locking door. And a bath, and supper, and breakfast.” The innkeep eyed him sullenly.

“Ten coppers.” He paid.

“Follow me.” The innkeep led him to the third floor and handed him a key. “This door.” Domeric entered and deposited all his things but a small purse of coin between the door and the bed. “Your bath will be ready in an hour.”

An hour was enough for him. He left the inn and started back for the market. Duskendale’s market square was lined with shops and stands bearing goods from the South and across the Narrow Sea. One such shop was selling ladies’ things, highborn women’s castoffs that merchant daughters snapped up. On a stand hung all sorts of bonnets and caps. In a case were rows and rows of gloves. Cloaks and mantles were hung on several racks, and there were racks of satchels and purses and gowns as well. Behind the counter were shelves of what looked to be bottles of perfumes and paints that ladies used on their faces.

“Looking for something, m’dear?” A squat woman who looked to be around his father’s age addressed him from behind the counter. He approached.

“Aye, milady.” His eyes flicked to the shelf behind her head which was marked out for hair dyes. Briefly he considered buying a brown or a black to match his own but then he realized he had no idea how to use it. The Princess probably wouldn’t either. It wasn’t as if they’d have any servants with them. Then he thought of her bright hair, how its deep reds and bright auburns would flicker and dance like flames and the notion of changing it died in his mind. He couldn’t dye the Princess’s hair. “A bonnet. A riding gown and a traveling cloak. A pair of gloves.” He almost said riding boots, but this was not a cobbler’s shop, and the Crown would have seen to it that the Princess had fitting boots.

“How tall is yer lady, dear?” The shopkeep gave him a small smile. Internally kicking himself, he realized that it had been over a year since he had seen the Princess, and that he had no idea how tall she was now. He thought back to the last time he had seen Lady Catelyn.

“About this high,” he motioned to the level of his nose. It was better to err on the side of too tall rather than too short.

The shopkeep gave him a reproachful look and a small _tsk_. “Menfolk shouldn’t be buying ladies’ dresses without knowing their ladies’ measurements. I suppose ye’ll be showing me how large her waist is with yer hands next.” She scoffed. “Don’t bother, dear. This one here, the slate wool, should be the right length. The bodice ties along both sides so it should fit most.” It looked more like a surcoat with long slashed sleeves, but he had no choice but to trust the lady.

“What for the cloak, dear?”

“Grey wool,” he said instantly. Grey was nondescript and well suited for traveling. The shopkeep took a cloak that most closely matched the description off of the rack.

They didn’t have much in the way of gloves. Only flimsy things of silk. He was looking for leathers so he passed those over. Next he moved on to the bonnets and caps. Many were things that were held to the head by fabric ties and looked to fly away easily.

“Erm, do you have anything for a lady who might like to hawk?” What he meant was a lady who might need to ride away very fast but he wasn’t about to say that.

“The cauls and snoods and hairnets, dear. The pins will keep them secure.” She motioned to a table covered with the things. Right. Hopefully the Princess could pin a hairnet in place herself.

“Which of these covers all the hair?” He felt terribly stupid. The shopkeep was almost amused as she plucked several headpieces off the table. Two looked to be hard things that hugged the skull closely, almost like a second skin. Most were hairnets of metallic mesh or woven wools, some jeweled, some without. They didn’t truly cover all of the hair; it was clear from the spaces between the lines of mesh or spun wool. A few looked to be linen sacks, almost hoods. They would serve but they looked rather flimsy. Finally his eyes were drawn to a solid piece of black velvet. Twisted chains of silver rings crisscrossed over the velvet, and tiny white pearls adorned each crossing.

It was much finer than he had been expecting, but it was still the best. He separated it from the rest.

“How much for the lot?” The shopkeep narrowed her eyes at him, as if she didn’t expect him to be able to afford it all. The headpiece alone was probably worth a dragon or five. Too much for the hedge knight or sellsword he was pretending to be.

“Five hundred stags.” Not too much for Domeric Bolton, who was in no mood to haggle. He handed over the requisite coin and made off with his purchases back over the cobblestone streets to the Seven Swords.

He beat his bath up the stairs by fifteen paces.

“Shall ye be coming down for supper, m’lord, or shall we send it up?” said the serving man.

“Have it sent up, please,” he said after a few moments of deliberation. He had the information from the farmer and all the extra supplies he needed. There was no need to dine in the common room.

After his bath and having chewed through his dinner, Domeric lay back into the featherbed and drifted off to an easy sleep with a smile on his face. In two days’ time, he’d be in King’s Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no skill at writing battles and for that I apologize. I tried my best to look at a map and the AWOIAF entry for the Battle of Duskendale, but as the event happened offscreen, how the fighting happened occurred is unclear. According to AWOIAF, Tarly traps Glover against the sea in the fields and the farms outside Duskendale, Tallhart dies, and Harry Karstark is taken. Whether that is north or south of the town is not said. My interpretation of what happened is that the Northern forces was marching in units that were separately ambushed by Reacher armies.
> 
> I wish some fan had put together a Westerosi price index, making up prices makes me feel incredibly stupid.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story.
> 
> EDIT 12/5/2019 Thank you to nitpicker who linked the AWOIAF currency page. Prices have been updated to reflect canon. Hyperinflation has not happened in this AU.


	11. Domeric XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric arrives in King's Landing and catches a glimpse of his princess.

The ride down the Rosby Road to the capital was uneventful. On the first day he saw no one, but as he approached King’s Landing travelers increased in quantity. Word must have spread that it was safe to approach Duskendale again.

Once he was in sight of the city walls, he broke off the Rosby Road and headed towards a copse of trees with enough cover. Then he changed back into the Lannister armor and went over his story. He’d have to keep up the Valeman’s voice because he had no idea how a Westerman really sounded like.

The gold cloaks accosted him when he came through the Iron Gate. There weren’t that many sentinels on the walls, perhaps one for every five posts, he could see, and many were slouching and looking down rather than standing at attention. _Could King’s Landing truly be this ill defended?_

“What ho, soldier? All alone, are ye?”

“Aye! Was with Clegane’s men, but took a knock to the head when we caught the wolves and when I came to they were gone. ‘S closer to here than to Harrenhal so I’ve come here seeking to switch companies.”

“On to the Red Keep with you then!” The Red Keep was on the coast at the mouth of Blackwater Rush. From the maps he’d stolen, there was no route straight along the wall on the coast, so he did his best to keep the wall to his left as he made his way through the city. When he finally reached the Red Keep he realized that there was no castle gate on its coastal wall, so he had to go around the base of Aegon’s High Hill until he spotted one of the great bronze gatehouses he had read about. He hailed a Lannister guardsman speaking to a gold cloak manning the gate and begged entrance to the castle, selling the same story.

The guardsman summoned another more senior red cloak who then helped him see Rhaegar to the stables and escorted Domeric through the Red Keep. He struggled to remember the descriptions in the old book, but many of the waypoints were old Targaryen statues and tapestries, and apparently King Robert had done away with all of those. Now the Red Keep was decked out in Lannister crimsons and Baratheon golds. He had no idea where he was being led. Up and up a set of spiral stairs the red cloak bid him, until they reached a set of double doors at the top of the tower guarded by two more red cloaks.

“My lord, Lester and a soldier from the army to see you.”

“You may enter.” The red cloak closest to the door turned the knob and swung the door outward. “Why have you brought me a common soldier, Lester?” The door opened to a chamber with Myrish rugs on the floor. Many tapestries hung on the walls, and near the back of the room was a golden-tinted round window. There was a large oaken desk behind which sat a bald man with thick blonde sideburns. He was wearing a rich red velvet doublet chased with thread-of-gold. The famous pin of the Hand of the King glinted on his breast.

Domeric’s heart stopped beating. He swallowed. _They’ve brought me to Tywin Lannister. I’ll die here… _

The guard named Lester spared his fate. “Says he was at Duskendale with Ser Clegane, my lord. Seeking new orders. Seeing as the rest of the army's good and blooded we thought to bring this one to you for the red cloaks. Better use of him.”

Tywin Lannister motioned for Domeric to sit in the leather-backed chairs in front of his desk. “Why did you desert my army, soldier?” The Old Lion’s eyes were green and flecked with gold. His stare was hard and piercing.

Domeric swallowed again, loudly this time. _Face like Father, voice like Creighton._ “Pardon, m-m’lord, but I didn’t desert. Was separated from the company, I was. When we met the wolves west of Duskendale. A Glover man knocked me in the head with the flat of his blade. Left for dead, I was. In the mud. When I came to, I didn’t know where Ser Clegane and the company went, only that the orders were to make for Harrenhal. I-I wasn’t sure if I could catch them without being caught, so I came back here. I’d serve with the castle garrison, if you’d have me. M’lord.” 

Lord Tywin’s gaze did not soften. “You do not speak like a Westerman. How did you come to serve with Ser Gregor?” Domeric was very glad he’d practiced his story then.

“Me mam’s from Gulltown, m’lord. Youngest daughter of a merchant. Met me da in Lannisport. When Mad Aerys was king. Me da was a sailor from outside Banefort. Wasn’t around much. Learned to talk from me mam, I did. We came to fight with Lord Quenton’s men. Me an’ me brother. Mychel. The wolves killed him on the Green Fork. Then me company got sent to Harrenhal, and you know what happened after we left Harrenhal, m’lord. I went with your host, I did, didn’t stay behind with Ser Lorch. When I heard that Ser Gregor was taking men to fight the wolves, I switched with one of his. For me brother. M’lord.”

“I see.” Lord Tywin continued to stare at him harshly, studying him closely. He reminded Domeric of his own father. “You seem young and eager to serve. How many name days have you seen?”

“Twenty, m’lord.” Domeric would be twenty on his next name day.

“Twenty. No longer green, it appears.” Lord Tywin scowled. “And you wish to join the castle garrison. Why?”

Domeric cast his eyes downward. “The castle garrison gets regular meals, m’lord.” On Tywin’s desk was a rolled-up scroll sealed with a familiar shade of pink wax. Having seen too much, he looked up to face Lord Tywin again. “And the Riverlands have all but ran out of forage. I can fight, m’lord, but I do like to eat.”

“Very well then.” Tywin Lannister met Domeric’s eyes. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Jasper, m’lord,” ghost-grey met pale green. “Me mam named me.”

“I shall allow you to join the red cloaks, then, Jasper. Seven only know we need your sort more than the sellswords and other filth my children have seen fit to take into our service as of late. Lester,” he turned to the guardsman still in the room. “Please take young Jasper here to Ser Osfryd.” Lord Tywin waved a hand in dismissal.

Domeric rose and let out a breath. “Thank you, m’lord. I’ll do me best here in the castle, m’lord.” Then Lester ushered Domeric out of Lord Tywin’s chamber, down the spiral staircase, and across the castle. They stopped back at the stables and Lester allowed Domeric to fetch some of his things.

“Off to the barracks next lad. Then Ser Osfryd will show you ‘round the castle. You won’t need to remember everything, o’course, but you’ll get to know it once you’ve been given enough assignments.”

Domeric couldn’t believe how much his luck had turned. A quarter of an hour ago he’d been sure he’d be the Old Lion’s next meal. Now he was to be given a personal tour of the Red Keep and an in-depth explanation of the red cloaks’ rounds and schedule by one Ser Osfryd Kettleblack, the new captain of the Lannister guards.

“I knew Lord Tywin’d be grateful for ye here. Red cloaks ‘ent been the same since the Blackwater. Nothing like at the Rock. Back west ye’d be just another new recruit but here, pick any ten guards and ye’re worth more ‘en nine of ‘em.” Lester had given this remark on their way to see Ser Osfryd. It had only reinforced his what he had heard during his encounter with Tywin Lannister. A shoddy castle garrison would only make his job easier.

Lester found Ser Osfryd at what must have been the officer’s quarters in the barracks. Domeric was shown an empty bunk with storage for his things and given a red cloak’s uniform. The dark-haired, hook-nosed Ser Osfryd directed him to the guards’ baths and bid him return once he was clean and changed. He was done quickly enough.

The tour started with a cursory walk around the curtain walls and the outer gatehouses, barbicans and cornerforts. “We won’t bother with those,” said Ser Osfryd. “Those’s for the City Watch, the gold cloaks.” Next were the various stables and kennels. “That’s where yer horse’ll be.” Ser Osfryd motioned to a stable with Lannister banners flying. “It’s for the King’s men. There’re stables for Queen’s men and visiting nobles too.” Domeric memorized the location. He’d need to know where Rhaegar was. “There’s the White Sword Tower, for the Kingsguard. Traitor’s Walk and the Dungeon Tower. Maegor’s Holdfast, with the royal apartments. The Tower of the Hand. The Kitchen Keep.”

Now they were walking up a dizzying set of stairs. “These are the serpentine steps.” They reached the top. “There’s the godswood. The Maidenvault, the royal sept over there. Now we come to the Great Hall.” Ser Osfryd motioned to a grand pair of doors. “Court is in session now. We won’t go in. You’ll only ever go inside if you’re guarding a member of the royal family, or the Lady Sansa.” Domeric’s ears piqued at the mention of the Princess’ name.

The grand doors to the Great Hall opened. A line of well-fed, gossiping nobles filed out, guards of various houses among them. Domeric recognized many Reacher sigils. He frowned when he saw the green apple of the Fossoways of New Barrel, and then frowned again when he processed what all the Reacher ladies were wearing. _Gods be good, _he thought, as he looked over their gowns with their backless bodices, barely-there cap sleeves, and airy skirts. The deep necklines alone would have been daring in the Vale, and provocative up North, but the whole ensemble together was simply scandalous. _These are Reacher women? Truly from the Reach, the heart of chivalry in Westeros? Reacher lords let highborn ladies dress like whores to court? Their daughters, sisters and wives? To stand before their King? _The south was hot, but not _too_ hot. They were not in Dorne. If he could survive in his armor, surely the ladies could cover their backs and arms…

“Go ahead, take your look,” said Kettleblack with a cruel grimace. “Not a sight you’ll be seeing on campaign. Life’s better here in the castle, lad.” More ladies filed out of the Great Hall, these in more sensible gowns with trailing sleeves and covered backs. Domeric saw Westerlands sigils on their guards. “Food for the belly, food for the eyes.”

Then he saw her. She was taller than he remembered, and was dressed in a gown of sky-blue silk that, thankfully, was styled in the fashion of the Westerwomen. But his thanks ended there. He had to physically close his mouth with his hand. The gown’s hem was frayed and dirty and hung a hand’s height off the floor. He could see his Princess’ ankles; her stockings had holes and tears that promised to be extensive as they stretched up her legs. The neckline had been modest once, but that had been long ago, for the tops of her breasts were squished together and threatened to burst out of the straining bodice. The fabric of the gown visibly tightened over her hips and as she turned, he could see that it hugged rather than hid the curve of her bottom. But that wasn’t the worst part of it.

The worst part was the quick glimpse that he’d gotten of her face. The last time he had seen her she had been merely beautiful. Now her face was so haunting that she could inspire men to throw away their souls. Her bow lips, pink and perfect, were set in an expressionless line. Her gaze was straight, boring into the middle distance, but her ice blue eyes were sad and empty and cold. _What have they done? _He thought as she swept away. _How could they have hurt her? _His eyes lingered on the shining auburn of her hair. _At least they didn’t do anything to her hair._ His heart was hammering in his chest and he felt heat rush into his blood and creep into his face. He was so angry. _Sansa Stark should not be treated like this…_

“You like the wolf bitch, do you?” Ser Osfryd’s voice bade him back to earth. The hook-nosed man smirked. “You wouldn’t be the first. Bright red hair. Pretty face. Tall. Nice teats. I’m sure once King Joffrey’s done with it and fucked her right proper he’ll let us all have our turn. Said so himself, His Grace did.” The courtiers were gone, so Ser Osfryd was free to snigger harshly. His laugh was an ugly sound. “Tell you what, lad. Since Lord Tywin sent you himself, you must be good. I’ll assign you to guarding the Stark girl. Mayhaps one of these days you’ll get a taste.”

Domeric managed out a croak in acknowledgement. He was too wroth to be pleased with his incredibly good luck. They were making things so easy for him. But that didn’t matter. The captain of the household guard was japing about common guardsmen _taking a turn_ with the Princess of Winterfell… the Crown was dressing her in rags like a pauper… For all that Ser Osfryd had implied that she still had her maidenhead the Lannisters were still allowing grievous insults against her honor, against the whole North’s.

He had to get her out. He had to get her out as soon as possible.

***

Ser Osfryd gave him the evening off. “Go explore the castle, get to know it, and report to me in the morning.”

They had returned to the barracks. Domeric could see that only one of every four beds were being used. What men flitted in and out of the room seemed barely men at all, reeking of the streets or speaking squeakily like lads of less than three-and-ten. When Domeric went to the mess to eat his dinner, there looked to be a smattering of more seasoned guards, but they were few, and old besides.

_These guards really are terrible. _Father would never have allowed the Dreadfort garrison to sink to such a state. Lord Tywin must truly have been desperate to clean up the mess the Queen and the Imp had made. Domeric would have been empathetic as a lord to a lord if the weakness hadn’t been making his life so much easier.

So after he supped in the mess hall – by the gods the castle ate well – he took his plain armor, his coin, and the things he had purchased for the Princess and stashed them in the bole of a tree in the godswood. Afterwards he did a lap around the upper level of the castle, and then the lower, making mental notes as he went, and then he returned to the barracks and drifted off to sleep.

True to his word, after dawn broke the next morning, Ser Osfryd assigned him to guard the Lady Sansa when Domeric reported for duty after breaking his fast. Ser Osfryd paired Domeric with a guard who had been a sellsword before. When it was time for the morning shift to start, the former sellsword led them off to the Lady’s chambers.

“Ye’ve taken to the guard’s walk right quick,” said the sellsword. “Done this before, ‘ave ye, lad?”

“Nae. Grew up around a castle, I did, an’ watched the guards walk. I remember easy.” It wasn’t a lie.

They were in Maegor’s Holdfast now, walking up the winding stairs to the highest room in the tallest tower. _It’s like a song_, he thought almost giddily. _I’m off to save a princess in a tower like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Only I’ll be slaying lions and trimming roses instead of giants._

They reached the top of the tower where two more red cloaks were waiting to be relieved. “Her movements last night?” said the onetime sellsword.

“Like the night before. Supped with the Tyrells. Spent a few hours in the godswood. Back here near the hour of the wolf.”

Domeric’s partner nodded at this. “Good day to ye, then.” The two red cloaks stalked off back to the barracks and left Domeric and his partner to stand outside Sansa Stark’s door. Domeric contemplated slitting the sellsword’s throat and breaking the door down but quickly dismissed the idea. That would get him caught immediately, would get him killed, and he’d never get her out. No. He was so close. He could not waste the opportunity. So he waited.

_What should I say to her? Will she know me? _Inwardly he shook his head even as he stood still as a statue outside her door. She was only a few feet away… He could do this. He could think of what to say her later, when it was needed. All he needed to do now was not get caught.

Then the door swung open. “She is going to Princess Myrcella’s gardens to meet Lady Margaery,” a foreign, female voice addressed him. It was a dark-haired handmaiden. Domeric nodded. Then she appeared in a swish of purple skirts – _too small again_ – and he followed at ten paces, his eyes sweeping from one wall of the corridor to the next, side to side, back to her in the middle. His partner walked in front of the lady to clear the way. _This is it. This is real_, he thought, his heart galloping away, as they descended the stairs, flight after flight after flight. _I will save the Princess. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A funny thing is, between the Battle of the Blackwater and Sansa's marriage to Tyrion would have been the ideal moment to rescue her. Ser Osfryd (one of the Kettleblacks banging Cersei) was the head of the Lannister household guard and he doesn't even know how to read. Tywin had sent his own red cloaks off to chase Tyrion's Vale mountain clansmen away from the city, so that's a bunch of competent men just gallivanting off to the Vale.
> 
> Tywin brought ~20K men with him to the Blackwater, and the Mountain brought an unknown amount of men with him to Duskendale, but those soldiers wouldn't be red cloaks. They'd be the Westerland levies, veterans from the Green Fork and Stone Mill, and it's not clear where they're hanging out. Anyhow, if they're camped outside the city rather than housed in the castle, it's probably to the west by the King's Gate or the Lion Gate, since the Lannister-Tyrell relief force floated up Blackwater Rush to get there (not the Iron Gate to the northeast).
> 
> What was more, there were only ~4400 gold cloaks left after the Blackwater, and Tywin was kneecapping deserters who came back. According to AWOIAF, only about a third to a quarter of these were competent soldiers, the rest were "poorly trained, and many were drunks, brutes, or cravens who joined for the promise of bread". 
> 
> A small deviation from canon in this chapter is that Shae is already Sansa's handmaiden. 
> 
> Poor Sansa. As of ASOS, Sansa II all of her clothes are too short, too tight, and men leer at her :( That's not something that HBO really showed, Sophie Turner seemed to always be dressed impeccably.
> 
> Next chapter is Sansa Stark Rescue Mission proper. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and supporting this story. All feedback is appreciated.


	12. Domeric XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric spirits Sansa out of the Red Keep.

Princess Sansa joined a whole bouquet of roses in Princess Myrcella’s gardens. The ladies sat in a circle on stone benches in a small cobblestone square with a fountain shooting streams of water over the back of a prancing stag. The prettiest one who was the most finely dressed – for all that she could be called dressed in those flimsy scraps of green and gold – was obviously Margaery Tyrell. From what he could pick up of the conversation there was also a Megga, an Alla, and an Elinor, and the one playing the high harp – oh, how he missed his high harp – was Leonette. That must have been Lady Leonette Fossoway, who was married to the Fat Flower’s second son, Ser Garlan. There was also a Merry, a Janna – the Fat Flower’s sister, and an Alysanne. All throughout the morning they grazed on cheeses and grapes and pastries. Princess Sansa liked the lemon cakes especially. After seeing her so sad yesterday it made him glad that she was smiling with the rest.

Watching the ladies giggle merrily brought him back to the Redfort. He was five-and-ten again, sparring in the yard with Mychel or Jon or Waymar Royce and straining not to be distracted by the Redfort sisters Cassie and Jessie and Jeyne shouting at them from above, waving their bright red handkerchiefs in the air. Sometimes Ysilla Royce would join them, or Gillyanne Hunter or Brenda Belmore. They were good girls, Cassandra and Jessamyn and Jeyne. Cassie’s singing was as musical as her laughter and Jessamyn was almost a better poet than he was and Jeyne was the best dancer in the entire castle. And they were all expert seamstresses. The last name day he’d spent at the Redfort before he left the three of them had presented him with a fine pink doublet embroidered with a pattern of alternating tiny flayed men and blood drops all in red. The cuffs and the collar and the hem at the bottom were all lined in another sort of blood red fabric cut into a thousand tiny Dreadfort silhouettes.

_You know, you could change your name to Domeric Dreadfort and you wouldn’t need to be a Bolton anymore, _Cassie had whispered into his ear during the feast that night. _Then whenever someone said your name too fast it would sound like you were our brother for true._ He’d laughed so hard he’d slammed his fist on the table and toppled his goblet of wine all over her gown. In return she’d slapped him fondly on the arm. _Why not? _He’d replied. _The Baneforts are named after their castle too. The Rykkers should’ve changed their name to Dunfort when old King Scab did away with the Darklyns. What a wasted opportunity! _Cassie had laughed then as well, and her hand had shaken so much she’d spilled her own wine. Then Jessie and Jeyne had taken her on each of their arms and dragged her away to change into something clean before the dancing started.

He wondered how the three of them had been faring since he’d last seen them near on a year ago. Hopefully their lives were happy and normal and above all, _safe_. Perhaps Jessie and Alec Hunter would be married by now. Perhaps they’d have a babe on the way. For all that the Starks and Tullys were suffering for Lady Lysa’s silence, the Vale was untouched by war. Life would be peaceful there. They’d be pulling in the harvest and picking giant pumpkins and dancing in the leaves, all red and orange and bronze and gold. At least that’s what Ser Jasper had said that autumn in the Vale was like. He was the only one of the Redfort brothers old enough to have truly remembered the last autumn.

Then Margaery Tyrell stood up, and the rest of the ladies did too. He had to pay close attention again. Lady Margaery went over to Princess Sansa, clasped her hands, and kissed her on each cheek. The Princess smiled demurely and looked down, murmuring something inaudible. Then the Reacher ladies and their Tyrell guards gaggled away back towards the Maidenvault.

The Princess turned towards Domeric and his sellsword partner after they were safely alone. “I wish to walk throughout the gardens for a few minutes, if it please you, sers,” she said softly, so polite, so perfect.

_The time to act is now._ “Aye, my lady,” he said. He dropped the Valeman’s lilt and slipped into his own comfortable Northern brogue again. The Princess frowned and did a double take as if puzzled, but then gave him a small smile and turned to walk away.

Domeric placed his hand on his hip and drew his knife. Silent as an owl and as quick as an eagle, he turned to the other red cloak and dragged the blade across a gap between the lion’s head helm and the gorget, drawing a curtain of red. There were no screams.

The sellsword was dead before Domeric caught the heavy corpse in his arms. He shoved the body under a rosebush with as little noise as possible.

The Princess was rounding a corner now, into a tunnel made up of tall, viny hedges with a trellis overhead. _Perfect._ Stalking forward silently he caught up to her. Once they were midway through the tunnel, he grabbed her by the arm, clapped a gauntleted hand over her mouth, and dragged her back into the hedge.

She struggled a bit, and then stopped. He took a leg and braced it over hers, trapping her against him while the hand that wasn’t over her mouth fished for that precious thing beneath his breastplate. Having found the square of pink silk, he pressed it into one of her soft, small hands, took off his helmet, unhooked his leg from his and gripped her shoulder to spin her around, keeping her from screaming the entire time.

“Princess,” he whispered. “Lady Sansa. Do you know me?”

Her blue, blue eyes were as big as dinner plates as they flicked between his face and the favor she had given him three years before. Her gaze found the little flayed man atop the black stallion, lingered on it, and then raked upward to meet his own. She nodded.

He let his hand fall away from her mouth and gripped her other shoulder.

“_You’re Domeric Bolton,” _she breathed, and she looked like she didn’t believe it, like she was about to cry. “You kept this?”

“Over my heart and every day, my Princess.” It was true. He’d never parted with it.

“Someone came for me.” Her voice and lower lip trembled like drops of water on a leaf in the wind.

“I came for you,” he said softly. “I want to take you away from here. Back to your family at Riverrun. Will you go with me?”

She stared into his face for a long moment, her eyes searching for something. Her lips pursed and then parted and then quirked into the beginnings of a smile before settling in a neutral expression. Then she nodded.

“Do you have any clothes well suited for travelling?” She nodded again.

“Good. We’ll go back to your chambers. Change into those clothes, and pack anything else suitable. Heavy cloaks, the like. The jewels you want to keep. Coin if you have it, and any jewels you can sell, but nothing recognizable. Pack lightly though, one bag at most. Wear boots and riding gloves. Take any blades you can. I have food.” She indicated her understanding with yet another nod and stepped out of the bush. He picked up the helmet, pulled it over his head, and followed her back to Maegor’s Holdfast.

When they reached the top of her tower he stood outside her door and waited for her to emerge. Finally the door opened, and he saw that her hair was done in a single simple plait down her back. She was wearing a dark brown dress with pearls on the front, and her cloak was pale grey. Then he went inside, went to the wardrobe, took a gown and tore a long section of it, walked to the first large window he could see, and smashed the precious glass from Myr. Then he placed the torn piece of gown on the remains of a windowpane, walked back to the hall, and shut the door. By the time the Lannisters realized she was gone and finished searching the spikes of the dry moat below for the Princess’ remains they would be far, far away.

“To the godswood, Princess,” he said into her ear. She knew the way.

They reached the tree where he had stashed his things. He pulled out the spare armor, the coin, and the items he had bought for her.

“Can you put this on by yourself?” He showed her the hairnet and the pins that came with it. “It would be better to cover your hair. It’s very recognizable.”

She nodded in understanding and began rolling her plait into a knot, taking one pin into her hand and another in her mouth. He would have liked to watch her work but he had to change into the plain plate and cloak himself. When he was done he stuffed the guardsman’s uniform into the bole of the oak and turned back to the Princess.

The hairnet was on properly and she had pulled up her grey hood. That was good. She could be any maiden now.

“We’re off to the stables next. I have a horse. I’ll have to find a wagon or something like for your direwolf, I don’t know how we’ll get it out of the city - ”

Then her face fell suddenly and he just couldn’t keep talking. Her eyes were swimming – they were so _sad _– and she turned her face away.

“I don’t have a direwolf,” she whispered. “Not anymore. They killed her.” She looked back toward him. “I am ready to leave now.”

_No_! He’d nearly made her cry… he couldn’t have that. He didn’t know what to do with the fact that they’d killed her direwolf. One the one hand the absence of a hulking beast the size of a horse made things easier for him. On the other, everyone knew that King Robb’s direwolf rode beside him in battle and defended him with more competence and ferocity than his whole battle guard combined. He’d expected that the Princess would have at least had her great lupine protector with her here. But he supposed that nothing in this great stinking pit of a city had been as he had expected. He’d expected she’d be treated well. He’d expected competent guards. He’d expected to struggle to get her out. He didn’t expect to find her dressed like a beggar and gossiped about like some sort of royal mistress.

“I am sorry, my Princess,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say, so he changed the subject to the task at hand. “Please keep your eyes down.”

He led her by the arm to the stables and had no trouble retrieving his horse. His saddle would not be practical and he cursed inwardly for not having exchanged it for one made for riding double back in Duskendale.

“You’ll ride in front, my Princess. I hope that is all right with you.”

It was still daylight and the guard had not yet changed. That was good. _They will think she is still in the garden. No one will come looking for her._ Petitioners were still moving in and out of the Red Keep. Like the red cloaks, the gold cloaks seemed to be made up of the dregs of the men left in the city – sellswords and drunks and boys so young their voices hadn’t broken. The Tyrell guards seemed to be the best fighting force in King’s Landing, but the Tyrell guards were not responsible for securing anything but the Reacher nobles, so Domeric and the Princess were ignored or overlooked all the way out the castle gates. Domeric had one hand on the pommel of his sword the whole time, ready to draw, but it was not needed.

The Princess was silent the whole way through the city. Perhaps the humid, fetid air bade her to breathe out of her mouth like he was doing. Perhaps she wanted to ignore the shouts of merchants and the mass of stinking smallfolk lumbering about. Domeric felt uneasy. The whole affair had gone too smoothly for his comfort. Duskendale to King’s Landing in three days, one night in the castle, and out the gates by the early afternoon? What had he done to deserve the gods’ favor? His luck was bound to run out soon.

The heroes always had to struggle to rescue the princess in the songs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The handkerchief first made an appearance in chapter 3.
> 
> Yes, he is making things up as he goes along.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading this story.


	13. Domeric XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric struggles with what to say and engages in self-reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I encounter in my mind dies,  
when I come to gaze on you, sweet joy:  
and when I am near you, I feel Love  
who says: 'Run, if you care about dying'.  
The face shows the colour of the heart,  
that, fainting, leans for support:  
and in the vast intoxicating tremor  
the stones beneath me cry: Death, death.  
They commit a sin who see me then,  
if they do not comfort my bewildered soul,  
if only by showing that they care for me,  
through pity, which your mocking killed,  
that is descried in the dying vision  
of eyes that have wished for death.
> 
> \- Dante Alighieri, 'All I encounter in my mind dies', La Vita Nuova

His luck would not in fact run out that day. They left King’s Landing through the Iron Gate unharassed, among a group of farmers returning to their fields with their empty wagons and carts now the market time was done. Already the air was better as soon as they stepped into the countryside. Without the cobblestones and winding streets in the way they could afford to go a little faster, so he tangled the reins in his right hand and circled his left arm around her waist to secure her against his upper body.

“You shall be safe soon, my Princess.”

“Thank you, ser,” she said shakily. He could hear that she was not one for talking at this moment. That was fine with him. They were going at a moderate trot. They would ride together for the first day to get as far away from the city as possible, and then the rest of the way he’d get down and walk. Domeric didn’t want to risk overburdening Rhaegar when he didn’t have a proper pack horse with him. Already he had pushed the poor courser too hard for his liking on the way from Duskendale, and he’d only had a day of rest since then. Under no circumstances would he let Rhaegar come up lame. They’d only ride double again if it was clear that they were being pursued. It would take perhaps a sennight to get to Duskendale at this rate, maybe less if they had to ride hard for portions of the way.

She did not speak a word for the rest of the sun’s descent into the west, only clutching his left arm to remain steady.

As the day looked to end, Domeric turned Rhaegar off the road to find a place to bed down for the night.

“We’ll make camp here,” he said. They had reached a safe-looking copse of trees between a village and a farm about two days’ walk to Rosby castle. Domeric dismounted, took off the dark helm, and turned to face her. Her eyes were glassy as if she were in some sort of daze. He motioned for her to grip his shoulders and placed his hands around her waist.

She looked down at him and spoke with a faraway voice, as if she thought she was inside a dream. “We’re not in King’s Landing anymore.”

“No, we are outside the city.” He helped her off of Rhaegar’s back. Now she was looking up at him, studying his face as if his skin was glittering or changing color.

Perhaps his skin was indeed glittering, or a different color. Green, maybe, or red, perhaps, or _both,_ like the Bloodstone Emperor. Aye. The Bloodstone Emperor. A usurper. A torturer, a dark sorcerer, a necromancer. He could have been a Bolton! He lay with a beast of a woman and then the Long Night came. That would be right. It was a dream, and he was dreaming he was the Bloodstone Emperor going to claim his red-haired bride. Qyburn had given him dreamwine, and he was still in his bed at Harrenhal, and Duskendale hadn’t happened yet, and Harry and Lord Robett and Ser Kyle were safe and Ser Helman was still alive and tomorrow when he rode out he would tell them that his father hadn’t had orders from the King at all and nobody would go off to Duskendale and they wouldn’t burn everything and they wouldn’t rape the farm girls, they would ride to Riverrun instead, and he’d talk to Ser Edmure and Lady Catelyn and _then_ he’d go off to save the Princess, but he wouldn’t do by himself, there would be ten men with him, and he’d just be giving orders, and they would have to kill people, and when they got her out he wouldn’t have to think of anything to _say_ to her, because His Grace would have given him a message to let her read, and gods be good, he wouldn’t have to be _all alone_ with Sansa Stark for however long it was going to take to get her clear across the countryside…

It had to have been a dream. Aye. This couldn’t have been real. Aye. It had been too easy. No one had tried to kill him. No one had even tried to stop them. How long had they been riding? He didn’t know. The sun had set, aye, but he didn’t know how much time had passed. Mayhaps he had just blinked and the sky had turned purple when he had stopped his horse, but now he was touching her, and next he’d kiss her, and then he’d lay with her, and then she’d turn into a wolf like some sort of _skinchanger_, and then she’d start ripping his head off…

Her voice snapped him back. Not a dream. It was real. It was real and _he would have to say something to her… _

“You’re taking me back to Robb? To my mother? Truly?” At the mention of her mother her voice started wavering. How long had he been standing numbly like that? She still hadn’t taken her hands off of his shoulders even though his own had fallen away from her waist.

“I will get you there. Truly.” That was his voice, but he didn’t feel his mouth move. He didn’t feel like he was in his body, but he was still looking at her, still watching her, and she was still _touching _him…

Then her tears that were threatening to come arrived for true. She started sobbing and pressed her face into his gorget. _Oh_. Now he was back in his body. Now he could feel himself again. Gingerly he drew his arms around her and placed one gauntleted hand on her back.

“Thank you,” he heard her say between shuddery, sniffly breaths. “I’d thought I’d never see them again. Or the North, or a northman.”

“You will, my Princess. Your family and the North.” Was that the right thing to say? He hoped drawing her closer and rubbing circles onto her back would help her stop crying. He hadn’t expected her to cry…

When her tears were done, he squeezed her shoulder and led her to sit on a tree stump. He pulled out the favor again, patted her cheeks dry and did his best to hold her blue gaze. _It’s real, she’s real, I must be good to her. I must say all my courtesies. She is my liege lord’s sister._ _She is my Princess._

“The Lannisters mistreated you, my Princess. That will stop. From this moment onward you will be afforded all due respect as befits a lady of your station.” He exhaled in the steadiest way he could manage. “Please excuse me while I make camp.”

Then he tied Rhaegar to a tree and then made to start a fire. That was easy. He could do that. Task-oriented thought was safer, more comfortable. He exhaled again. Easy. Another exhale. Just like before a tilt. Breathe in focus, breathe out fear.

They had no need to cook this evening but the nights grew cool so close to the ocean. He’d learned his lesson on the trip south. He found the pack with the food and gave her some salted meat, a roll of bread, and a piece of cheese. He took out his only bedroll and lay it out on the flattest patch next to a tree, and then he retrieved the bag with his clothes and positioned it on the ground at safe distance from the foot of the bedroll. Thankfully he had a spare saddle blanket large enough to curl up in.

“The bedroll’s yours,” he said.

The heat had not yet left the humid Crownlands air. He was still flushed and sweating from spending the whole day in full plate, and riding double was uncomfortable no matter whether you sat in front or behind. Besides, the armor was made for a man slightly shorter, slightly thicker, and the kit did not fit him properly. It pinched at some junctures and his shoulders were achy and screaming. He turned away from the Princess and began stripping off the stolen plate.

He had no idea what to say to her. Words usually came easy to him but his mind was utterly failing him now. This was the part that he had been waiting for. This was the part that he had been dreading. What if she asked him why he had broken with her brother’s army to come and find her? He felt as if he might die if he had to tell her the truth but he couldn’t very well lie and say that King Robb had sent him on a special secret mission. When they eventually reached His Grace, he would be exposed immediately. He might very well be punished for not retreating to Harrenhal with the rest of Condon’s men.

His face was burning and his neck was sweating. By the gods, the south was warm. An evening breeze kissed his skin and gave him some relief, but the tense and brutal awkwardness did not abate. He knew he should have thought of something to say while he was watching her in the garden, or standing guard outside her door. The singers never sang about what the knight said to the lady the moment she was rescued. They just sang about how he rescued her. Knights didn’t need reasons to rescue ladies.

_That’s only in the songs,_ a voice in his head said, and it sounded like his own. _In life, knights don’t go on quests to rescue ladies for love. They do it because they’re told to. They do it for coin. Did you think you could be a knight from the songs?_

Aye. What had he been thinking?

_You weren’t thinking. You were stupid. _That was Robbie’s voice. _Didn’t I say, don’t be stupid? You’re too smart to be stupid. Why did you do this?_

_Why indeed? _That was Father…

When the ravens had flown out announcing that Lord Stark had gone south to serve as Hand, and that Lady Sansa had been betrothed to the Crown Prince, he’d had the fleeting idea to steal away down the Kingsroad and beg King Robert to legitimize Ramsay. He would have needed to pretend to like Ramsay, to respect and love him and deem him worthy to rule the Dreadfort, but it would have been worth it. _Why? _King Robert would have boomed, perched on high from that great barbed chair. _Why beg for the rights of your father’s bastard?_ _So that I may swear my sword to the future queen_, Domeric would have said. _So that I may someday take the White and guard her always. _And then everybody in court before the Iron Throne would have laughed, and word would have reached Father, who would have set Ramsay on him for shaming House Bolton. And then he’d be locked beneath the Dreadfort, and then the torture would begin…

So he’d thought better of that notion. Besides, he had only been recently knighted and there were many finer swordsmen, knights with countless deeds of true valor to their names. Domeric would not have deserved such an honor. Instead, he’d contented himself with composing music for his harp and writing his poetry. Perhaps he’d even gather his work into a collection and secretly have the maesters spread it around. Then _all _the ladies would smile, _all _the ladies would sigh, all because of him. He’d have his own lady wife then, of course, his own children, and he would be Lord of the Dreadfort and could change things for the better. But it would be all duty, and they’d respect each other without loving each other, they might even be _friends,_ and that would be fine, because that was the best many highborn marriages could aspire to. No one but those who had known him as a young man in the Rills or in the Vale would ever need know the poems were his, and only Mychel Redfort would ever know that they were about the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They’d all be dedicated to the Queen of Love and Beauty and every woman would believe it was herself. The Lord of the Dreadfort was not supposed to write poetry about secret loves that would never spark. No Bolton of the Dreadfort was ever supposed to love a Stark…

He was not prepared for this. _I hardly know her_, he panicked inwardly. _I can’t say all that, she’ll think me a fool, or worse. I haven’t seen her in nearly two years, and I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve been to Winterfell and spoken to her. _It was ridiculous, if you thought about it. People would be right to laugh at him. Father would be right to torture him. _By the gods, why did I do this? I deserted the army and I don’t even know what to say to her. She didn’t need me, they didn’t dishonor her, they don’t do that to highborn hostages, they only talked about it and dressed her up wrong. They wouldn’t actually do it. Robbie was right. I am too smart for this stupidity. I am such a fool…_

“Ser Domeric?” The Princess’ voice drew him away from his thoughts. He noticed that she was finished eating, and he was done taking off the armor. It was sitting neatly in a pile next to the tree. Now he was just in his linens and hose. He turned back to look at her. She was sitting prettily on the tree stump, staring at him with starry blue eyes. Her knees were together and pointed towards him and it looked like she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands. Somehow even with her hair covered and her tear-tracked, snow-white face dirty with the dust from the road she seemed to shine.

“Aye, my Princess?”

“How did you know that they mistreated me?” Ser Osfryd’s voice rang in Domeric’s ears as he pictured how he first saw her coming out of the Red Keep’s Great Hall. _You like the wolf bitch, do you? I’m sure once King Joffrey’s fucked her right proper he’ll let us all have our turn. Said so himself. _He clenched his jaw.

Any lady about whom common guards talked like that was being mistreated. Any lady forced to bandy about in clothes so tight they’d belong in a whorehouse mummer’s show was being mistreated. It wasn’t mortal jeopardy, but ladies deserved better than that. It was clear for anyone to see. Domeric frowned.

“When I hid as a red cloak the other guards spoke of you with gross disrespect. And your gown was too small. Everyone knows that highborn hostages should be kept with honor. That means providing appropriate clothes.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes downcast. “That’s not what I meant.”

That wasn’t what she meant? He struggled to think of things that might be worse. Were they starving her? Torturing her? They weren’t keeping her in the Black Cells… He’d heard rumors that Joffrey was petty and cruel, but surely it couldn’t have been so bad. Surely he would have been disinherited by King Robert or deposed like Mad Aerys already if he treated noble prisoners as poorly as Ramsay did. Surely she hadn’t been dishonored as he had feared…

He stepped closer and tried to examine her more thoroughly without imposing upon her personal space. She had all of her fingers; her hands were perfect. If her feet had been maimed, they would be covered all the time and he wouldn’t have noticed. That was the idea behind taking toes. Other people wouldn’t see or suspect anything. He struggled to remember how she walked in the castle. Nothing seemed to be amiss with her gait. Perhaps any wound had healed already? He wasn’t about to take off her boots to find out.

“What did you mean?” He tried to sound as gentle as possible, to keep the dread out of his voice.

She breathed in deeply, picked up a twig, and started drawing shapeless figures in the dirt. “Joff was terrible. After he took my father’s head he made me go up on the walls and look at it. And my septa and our steward and the rest.” Domeric remembered walking beneath the poor servants’ tarred heads at Harrenhal. That would have been very painful indeed. He had suffered to look at the innocent Harrenhal servants. As much as it might have been satisfying to see the heads of one’s enemies on spikes, he couldn’t imagine what it would it have felt like to see that of someone he loved. He couldn’t bring himself to picture it done to Grandfather or Lord Horton or Maester Uthor.

“After the Blackwater and the Lannisters betrothed King Joffrey to Margaery, he said I was nothing and that could have me anyway. He… He left me with my honor,” she continued slowly, “but Joff would bring me before the court and make me naked and stuck a crossbow in my face. That started before the Blackwater though.”

_What? _The last whole thing in him broke at that moment. The entire world was red. Sansa Stark, their beautiful princess, the jewel of the North, made naked before the court? Joffrey Baratheon had told sweet _Sansa Stark_ that he would rape her, kill her? To her face and in front of gods only knew how many others? He’d never wanted to flay a living person so much in his entire life. Perhaps this was how his ancestors got their start. _I shall skin the beast alive and drape his hide on my Princess’ back. The bastard’s screams will make the sweetest song. _

“Then he would have the knights of the Kingsguard beat me with their gauntlets or the flats of their swords. Some of the wounds are only just healed but most are scars now.” _What_? They beat her? Knights of the White Cloak, striking a highborn lady with steel? Some knights betrayed their vows, yes, it was no secret what Ser Lyn Corbray was like. But the Kingsguard? The order of the highest honor?

He could not believe what she was saying, but he would not dare disbelieve her. What motive had she for telling him anything but the truth? How could anyone make something so awful like that up?_ I will flay their hands and present my Princess with seven sets of gloves. _

“He would do this whenever Robb would win a battle in the West, or whenever something displeased him. He did it for fun.” Now he was truly fuming. They said that Bolton blood ran cold, but his was boiling hot. The campaign in the Westerlands had been folly from the start. Now he knew the true extent of it. Domeric had thought His Grace the fool, but now he simply hated their boy King Who Lost the North, who played at glory while his innocent sister took his wounds, when the lions drew her blood instead of his. _I will tell all the Northern lords of this, _he thought,_ and they will know their king for a fool. Were it not treason, I would challenge His Grace to single combat for the Princess’ honor. _It was His Grace that threatened her honor, aye, not just the Lannisters. Domeric would give Robb Stark back those wounds, strike for strike.

“I hate them all. Joffrey, the Queen, the Lannisters. I hate them.” How could she keep a straight face while saying all this? _Was that a smile??_

“They will never hurt you again, my Princess. They shall all die by my blade, if the gods are just, if they are not already dead when we march south again come spring.” Now he was promising her another southern campaign. He’d scoffed at His Grace’s campaign in the West. He’d scoffed at himself for coming here. What a fool he had been. What a fool he was. He was right to desert and take the Princess away, and His Grace was even right in wanting to scorch the lions’ den, even if it had been a bit too soon. _I would have skinned lion pelts right along with him if he had had the sense to wait till spring. _The King’s actions were foolish, for they starved the North and hurt the Princess, but it was the Lannisters who struck the blows. Oh, how they all deserved to burn. Oh, how he desperately wanted to flay Joffrey and the Kingsguard and leave them to bleed out and die…

His mind was going places it had no business going. Such thoughts were not knightly. He scrounged about for his wineskin and took a long drink.

“I am going to eat as well, my Princess,” he said to her, but also to himself. He did not feel like eating but he had to, needed to. It was already dark. He’d need to sup before he slept, so he returned to the pack with the food and helped himself to a roll and some cheese and salted meat. There were no other stumps so he sat against the tree by the bedrolls.

“You don’t need to call me Princess, ser,” she said. She gave him a soft smile that lived only a moment. Domeric was very glad that she changed the subject. “I’m just Lady Sansa or Sansa.”

He shook his head. “You’re the King’s sister. You’re a princess. Our Princess, the North’s. Princess of Winterfell. That’s how we thought of you anyway. We, the army I mean. At least the army my father commanded. We didn’t hear much from the army with your brother.

“We prayed for you, you know. For your safety. For your honor. Especially after the Ironborn killed the little princes, and when Stannis was planning to attack King’s Landing. Every day at Harrenhal, in the morning. Thousands of men kneeling in the godswood, cutting our hands and giving our blood to the heart tree. We prayed for other things of course, for the safety of our homes, for the defeat of the ironmen. But I wanted you to know. Even when our commanders wouldn’t do anything, we didn’t forget you. We cared.” That was easy to talk about. Facts were easy. The truth was not…

Her bright blue eyes were wide and she was silent for a long moment. Then her mouth tugged upward.

“The gods must have been with you then, ser.” She watched him as he ate. He looked into the fire. They didn’t need it. Even in only his linens he could feel that it was a warm and balmy night.

Somehow one of the smallest meals in his life took the longest amount of time. Every time he looked up, he could see her starry, dreamlike gaze glinting in the flames. The sweet, serene expression on her white face was so at odds with her earlier tears. For all that he was glad to have made her happy – even if he did not know how – it was somehow more difficult to find something to say now than when she was sad.

He finished eating.

“I will sleep now,” she said politely. She rose, so he stood as well. He was next to the bedrolls so she approached.

She quirked up her lips and looked up to him. Her smile was kind but her mouth was cruel. “Thank you again for taking me away from the city, ser. Good night.” Then she pressed a hand on his chest, kissed him softly, and gracefully sank down to wrap herself in the bedroll.

His heart stopped beating. It galloped away. _No! She couldn’t!_ With the press of her lips to his it was done. Her teeth were digging into him, cutting down through his flesh to his very bones. She was cracking his ribs open, breaking the cage that held his heart in safekeeping. Every bit and piece of him she had torn asunder, only to come together again and reform anew in different places. She held him in her maw. He would fall to bloody pieces if she let him go, spit him out.

He stepped away from the tree and made for the stump. He sat, picked up the twig, and poked at the fire.

He would have been lying if he told himself that he had not hoped for this on some level. Ladies rewarded knights who rescued them with kisses, after all. But he was not prepared. Not at all. He hoped that it would stop with just the one. He’d have the one treasured memory, that one fine day, and he’d be able to hide it away and keep it separate from everything so he could get on with the rest of his life. Any more, though, and he would be ruined – the life of a normal highborn closed off to him forever. He wouldn’t be able to just return her to His Grace and walk away like he had planned. He couldn’t marry her after all, she was a Stark and he was a Bolton. Any more of her damnable kisses and he’d need to start making plans to spirit her away across the Narrow Sea, because he could not bear to ask His Grace for her and be told no, and they would say no, they should say no, because his name was Bolton. But he’d sooner run his sword through His Grace’s heart than hear that he couldn’t have the Princess who he loved and who he rescued and who was coming to him willingly. But that would be stupid. If he killed His Grace some fucking Umber would take his head, and he’d never be Lord of the Dreadfort, never even be able to rise in some sellsword company in Essos, never be able to ever give the Princess a lick of what she deserved. Perhaps he could choose go off and take the black like his friend Waymar did, but Waymar was dead, lost beyond the Wall, wildlings sucking the marrow out of his bones somewhere off in the Frostfangs. No. Terrible things would happen if Domeric allowed anything more.

It was all too much to process.

Domeric kept poking at the flames. He kept staring at the fire. Eventually he unsheathed his sword and began to sharpen it, and then he worked on his knife.

When his eyes were so tired they were falling closed he made for where he had lain his sleeping place. He wrapped himself in his cloak, and then again in the saddle blanket. He placed his sword on the ground and lay it down by his head. The bag of clothes made a decent pillow.

He hoped beyond hope that he’d get to kiss her again.

He was doomed before slumber took him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last Domeric chapter for a while. We will move onto Sansa's perspective next.
> 
> You may be curious as to why Sansa has said very little. It will become clear. She will also speak more.
> 
> As a point of divergence, we are somewhere between Sansa II and Sansa III, ASOS. I think it would be worth it to give those chapters a re-read.
> 
> Up until this chapter we have blown through Clash and Storm. Chapters will cover shorter periods of time moving forward.
> 
> Again, thank you to everyone who has been reading and commenting.


	14. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey North begins.

Sansa woke to the sounds of seabirds chirping and the early dawn light stroking her face. She felt warm and cozy all wrapped up in what seemed to be an overlarge, padded blanket. It must have been Margaery’s, or Megga’s or Elinor’s. The mattress was somewhat firmer than she would have liked but she had rested well enough. Maybe it was some new fashion in the Reach to sleep on something hard to improve one’s constitution.

Then Sansa opened her eyes. She wasn’t it her own chamber in Maegor’s, and neither was she in one of the Tyrell cousins’ beds in the Maidenvault. She was outside, and she was lying on the ground in a bedroll beneath a tree.

_Oh._

So it hadn’t been a dream.

At dinner Megga had told the story of how Elinor’s betrothed, Alyn Ambrose, had worn her favor all through the Battle of the Blackwater. Elinor’s favor had bolstered Alyn’s courage and gallantry so much that he’d shouted her name as a battle cry, killed two men and faced it all without fear. Megga had voiced her dream for a champion wearing her favor to kill a hundred men. _Silly Megga. Dreams don’t come true_, she had thought, then_._

Sansa had listened to the romantic tale with pity and envy. The way Megga told it, Alyn and Elinor had a love out of the songs. Sansa wished she could still believe that there was life and a love like that waiting for her, but she knew it could not be. Joffrey had been her golden prince. He kissed her and he gave her jewels and called her his beloved, but he had Lady killed and her father killed and everyone else from the North killed too. Then he’d had her beaten, stuck a crossbow in her face, and had her stripped naked and then beaten again.

Lord Baelish was right. Life was not like the songs. And the Hound was right too. There were no true knights. There were only monsters, and the monsters always won. Megga and Elinor were wrong. She prayed that they would not have to learn one day.

So when Ser Domeric Bolton had pulled her into the bush and told her he’d take her away barely a moment after the Tyrells had left the garden, she knew it had to be a dream.

Only in her dreams could she conjure up a gallant knight from the North who had come to take her away from King’s Landing back to Robb and Mother. It was too good to be true. That day couldn’t have really come to pass.

When she was small, Father had once told her that dreams were made of things you saw and felt and did while awake. Everything in the dream was familiar to her in some way. It had all felt so real. The Tyrells wanted to take her away from King’s Landing, and so did Ser Dontos, and so did the Hound. But the Tyrells would have taken her to Highgarden to marry Lord Willas for her claim to Winterfell, likely to never see Mother or Robb again. Ser Dontos was a drunk and a fool and it was never the right time for the escape he kept promising her. Then there was the Hound, who admittedly had killed for her and would have been a fierce protector, but he was rude and his words were hateful. He was dangerous and made her feel afraid.

Ser Domeric was better than all of them. In the dream he hadn’t looked that much different than the last time she’d seen him, about two years’ past, but for the fact that he was dressed as a red cloak and then in armor that could have belonged to any knight. After you started talking to him and noticed that his eyes were kind, their ghostly paleness was not so unsettling anymore. In fact, he was quite comely, with a sharp jaw and a straight nose, a fine mouth and hair that was black and thick and shiny. His face was free of disfiguring, ugly burns like the Hound’s. He was tall and broad and whole, with a knight’s hard form and fine muscles borne of training and battles, unlike the crippled Lord Willas and the fat Ser Dontos.

Ser Dontos. Her silly Florian, who she had come to believe would never take her away - he had given her a hairnet, and so Ser Domeric had too. Ser Dontos' hairnet had been silver and purple, but Ser Domeric was black and silver and pearl. Black for mourning, for Father and Bran and Rickon, and silver and pearl because she was a Stark. It was perfect.

Her sleep was usually full of nightmares, but she had been happy with the Tyrells for company, so it wasn’t surprising that she had a good dream this night. All the Tyrell ladies loved songs, and Lady Leonette even played the high harp with her, so the dreamweaving part of her had reached back into her memories and pulled out a knight who loved songs and played the high harp.

Megga had been talking about Alyn Ambrose wearing Elinor’s favor, and so her mind had recalled the pretty pink handkerchief she’d given to Ser Domeric when he’d earned his spurs. _I know you shall prove a true knight, ser, _she had said when she had given it to him. There were so few knights in the North. She’d wanted them all to wear her favor, because knights deserved ladies’ favors and she was a lady and had stupidly fallen madly in love with each and every young knight who rode through Winterfell’s gates. _You’ll be the greatest black knight there ever was! _Sansa had told Ser Waymar, when she’d presented him with his favor on his way to the Wall, but that one hadn’t been as pretty or as memorable. It had been black linen with the runes and studs of his house stitched in white in one corner, the Castle Black sigil of the Night’s Watch in the opposite. Ser Domeric’s had been much finer work.

Besides, it was silly to fall in love with a brother in black. Their vows were for life. They couldn’t leave the Wall to come to your rescue and bring you back to your family. They couldn’t get married, so Robb couldn’t reward her savior with her hand. Thus, the dreamweaver in her heart had chosen Ser Domeric over Ser Waymar to come and find her.

What was more, Ser Waymar was a Valeman and had sounded like it. Ser Domeric was of the North. In her dream every word out of his mouth sounded like home. She hadn’t heard a Northern brogue since Father died...

If Ser Domeric had actually come to rescue her, it would have been so perfect. He would take her to Robb and Robb would be so grateful and pledge him her troth right then and there. Then when the war was over Ser Domeric would take her back to the Dreadfort and she would be his lady and would never need to go south of the Neck again. She could visit Mother and Robb often, as the Dreadfort was the closest great seat to Winterfell bar Castle Cerwyn. And with a gallant husband like Ser Domeric, none of the scary tales about things beneath the Dreadfort would matter. Better yet, everyone else would believe those tales, and they’d be too frightened by the flayed man banner to ever dare hurting her. He would protect her from all of them. Ser Domeric and the Dreadfort would have been so much safer than Lord Willas and Highgarden with the puppies and the barge. The whole realm feared the flayed man of Bolton. No one would ever fear a flower, only the men behind it.

Then there was the kiss she gave him. It was only fitting that a lady reward her knightly savior with a kiss. And Megga and Alla had been talking about kissing games and asking her about Joffrey’s kisses. Joffrey’s kisses had been rotten and wormy, while Ser Dontos’ had been wet and slobbery. The Hound’s was hard and cruel and frightening. When Ser Domeric had kissed her back in the dream it was sweet. Now she understood what the singers meant by sweet kisses. They weren’t sweet like fruits or pastries but in the way of voices and smiles and people. He had clutched her to his chest and smiled into her mouth. Her neck had heated and the bats in her tummy had fluttered and danced and soon her whole body had been pressed flush against his. The kiss in the dream was better than the ones she shared with Ser Loras in her waking imagination.

The only part of the dream that was bad was when she talked about how Lady was dead and how Joffrey had hurt her. It had seemed so real. But she had told Lady Olenna about how Joffrey had her beaten and that was when the Tyrells offered to take her away. And what Ser Domeric had said afterward had been so like what the Hound had told her the night of the Blackwater. _No one will ever hurt you again or I’ll kill them. They will never hurt you again, my princess. They shall all die by my blade, if the gods are just._ So she could have dreamed that part of it up too.

But even though she could have dreamed it all up, she hadn’t. She was truly awake and she was truly outside and she truly had been taken out of King’s Landing by Ser Domeric Bolton. And she had truly kissed him...

Sansa froze in the bedroll. She studied the camp around her. All the bags were neatly piled next to the horse, as was his armor. His sword was gone, as was he, but the horse was still there so he couldn’t have been far.

She had to apologize. It had been so improper of her. It was good that she had time to think of what to say. Sansa hoped he would understand that she had just been a hostage so long that she’d believed that they’d all forgotten about her, so he must have been a dream. Hopefully the journey back to Robb would not be too awkward.

It was the ghost of the silly girl inside her that had thought that since he had her favor, he had come to her rescue because he loved her. No, that was stupid. He was a knight in Robb’s army, and he had brought the favor along to war because she had been held hostage and if she was not ransomed, she would need to be rescued. The favor was something useful that she would recognize as proof that he was truly who he said he was and not one of Joffrey’s men playing at some cruel jape. He was not in love with her. Robb sent him because he was a fast rider that could kill people, with enough stealth and cunning to break her out of the Red Keep.

Robb might still grant him with her hand, though. It would be a fair reward for such a perilous undertaking. Why else would a knight agree to go on such a dangerous mission, but for the honor of marrying a princess? Ser Domeric would be a king’s goodbrother then. He would have prestige and influence and power.

That would not be so bad, Sansa thought. Even if he didn’t come because he loved her, he was still a comely knight who could protect her from harm, and a Northern high lord’s son and heir to boot. She could still live at the Dreadfort, she could still see her family every so often, and she’d need never go South again. His music and poetry would still be pretty even if she didn’t believe in them anymore. He could give her a very good life. Better than Joffrey would, certainly. Better, even, than a life of luxury in faraway Highgarden. She could never see Mother in Highgarden.

She might even one day come to love Domeric Bolton like Mother had come to love Father. He was easy enough to get along with and she was already so, so grateful that he had taken her away from the city. But first she’d have to apologize to him for her behavior else the whole journey to Riverrun would be off to a terribly awkward start.

Sansa sat up and got out of the bedroll. There wasn’t an obvious way to fold it so she did her best to roll it up as neatly as she could. She noticed that the jeweled hairnet Ser Domeric had given her was crooked so she took it off and stuffed it into a pocket in her cloak. She could put it back on later. She really shouldn’t have slept in it. The pins were very uncomfortable. Her plait was coming undone too, so she undid it all the way and combed her fingers through her hair.

The brown dress was wrinkled. It was the only one that fit. She’d been in the process of sewing more, and then there was the gown the Queen had commissioned for her, but those would never be finished. She hadn’t bothered bringing any of the other traveling or riding dresses. They were too small to be worn. She stood up, shook out the dress, and straightened her skirt.

Sansa heard him before she saw him.

Ser Domeric was coming out of the east where the sun was still low in the sky. He was whistling a familiar tune, and as he drew closer it was clear that the tune was _Six Maids in a Pool,_ about Florian and Jonquil.

He saw her and stopped whistling, and waved his hand in greeting.

“Good morning, my princess,” he said when he had reached the camp. He was holding his helm upside down as if it were a bowl. “I hope you slept well. I brought some eggs to break our fast on, if that pleases you.”

“Thank you, ser,” she said. “And I did sleep well.” He was still calling her princess. She supposed that he was right, that since Robb was King in the North that made her a princess. She did not feel like a princess, though. Nobody treated her like a princess. Before the Tyrells had arrived, she was a hostage, and now she was just another lady.

Ser Domeric moved towards the remains of the fire and stoked it back to life. Then he produced a few sticks and stuck them into the ground around the fire. He balanced the helm on the sticks and it made a sloshing sound. He left the water to boil while he held the eggs in a small sling of fabric and moved away from the fire.

Now was the time to apologize. “Ser?” He looked up, and it looked like he was trying to stop a smile at his lips, but it had already claimed his eyes.

“Aye, my princess?”

Sansa took a breath and fell into a deep curtsey. She looked straight at him. “Good ser,” she started. “I must thank you again for traveling so far to take me back to my king. From the depths of my heart I am so grateful. I know your journey must have been perilous indeed, and you have been very brave. But I must apologize for… my lapse in propriety yesterday. I confess that so long had I thought myself abandoned and had given up hope of rescue that I believed myself in a dream. Please forgive me, ser.”

He blinked and then pointed his eyes away. “There’s nothing to forgive, my princess, and you ought not curtsey for me,” he said quietly to the boiling water. Then he plopped four eggs into his helm, moved to one of his saddlebags, and produced a spoon and a small bowl. “’Twas like out of the songs. No harm in just one kiss of thanks. I know ‘twas not meant as an invitation to take any liberties with you.”

Ser Domeric turned to face her again. His face was nearly as pink as a Bolton banner. Then he turned his attention to the eggs, which were done boiling, spooned them into the bowl, and retrieved some bread and a waterskin. He handed it all to her and motioned for her to sit on the stump.

He coughed into his fist. Sansa remembered that Ser Domeric was a generally quiet person. He didn’t often start conversations but once you did talk to him, he always had something intelligent to say.

“I must apologize myself for our poor accommodations, my princess. We’ll have to share the spoon and the bowl. I came alone and couldn’t bring my draft horse so I don’t have my tent either. We’ll have to camp like this again tonight, but tomorrow we should reach Rosby castle, and there should be an inn in the town outside. You will have a bath and a featherbed. I’ll be able to get extra supplies too. You’ll have to cover your hair before we get there, though.” His eyes were lingering over her hair. Maybe she should have left the hairnet on, even though it had been uncomfortable when she woke up. She didn’t want to make any trouble for him.

Sansa nodded and started on an egg. _Rosby castle_, he had said. From what she remembered, Rosby was to the northeast of the capital, by Blackwater Bay. It was on the Rosby Road, not the Kingsroad, and they had taken the Kingsroad to get to King’s Landing. Sansa had asked Father whether they would be stopping at Riverrun to visit Grandfather Hoster and Uncle Edmure on the way south, but he said no, Riverrun was west of the Kingsroad, and it would take too long to get there. She finished the other egg, took a piece of bread, and handed the bowl and the spoon back to Ser Domeric. Then she frowned.

“We’re on the Rosby Road? Why aren’t we taking the Kingsroad? Aren’t you taking me to Riverrun?” _Why are we going the wrong way? _A note of panic crept into her voice.

Ser Domeric’s brow furrowed and he pressed his lips together. Then he put down the bowl full of food and the spoon, knelt, and took one of her hands.

“Princess,” he said – she would need to ask him to stop calling her that again – “I would not subject you to the horrors of the Kingsroad. The Riverlands are full of armies and outlaws and they’re all rapers. There’s even a pack of wolves a hundred strong preying on villages and travelers. It would be too dangerous for me to take you through there by myself. I would not be able to leave you alone, and we would both need to work at making camp and keeping watch. We may both die there. Others take me before I lead you to your doom.” He ran a finger across her palm and looked into her face. His pale grey eyes were very soft.

“You have ladies’ hands. Ladies’ hands are not meant for such roughness and hardship. I would spare you as much hardship as was within my power. The Rosby Road is much safer since it’s indisputably within King Joffrey’s control. And around King’s Landing near the coast the farms and fields still have forage. Further north and west the fighting has destroyed all of the food supply. But I will keep us on the road for as short a time as possible. Once we get to the port at Duskendale in around a sennight we’ll take the first ship to Gulltown we can find.”

Sansa nodded in understanding. Ser Domeric was still holding her hand. His touch was very warm and he still had not taken his own eggs yet. She was going to tell him he was free to eat but he kept talking.

“From Gulltown we’ll take the road to Runestone, House Royce’s seat. Bronze Yohn always spoke very highly of your father, and Ser Waymar was my friend. Before he disappeared beyond the Wall, he wrote me and told me that he and his father had stopped by Winterfell on their way North. We will both be welcome at Runestone with the Royces. Do you remember them?”

Sansa nodded. She wouldn’t have forgotten Ser Waymar. It made her sad that he was gone. She had loved him, but she hadn’t even known him really, but her heart still twinged at the fact that he was dead like Uncle Benjen. She hoped Jon was all right. Once you disappeared beyond the Wall you didn’t come back.

“I am sorry about your friend. Ser Waymar was very gallant. I would never forget the Royces. Lord Yohn and Ser Andar and Ser Robar all rode in the Hand’s Tourney for my father in King’s Landing last year. And when I heard that Ser Loras had slain Ser Robar, I was very sorry as well.”

Ser Domeric’s eyes went wide at that, and then he blinked. “Oh,” he said softly. He looked like he had been slapped. “Robar too?”

Sansa squeezed his hand and put the other on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” She knew what it was like to lose people. She’d thought he’d known about Robar… She hadn’t meant to shock him.

“Ser Loras killed him at Storm’s End.” Sansa had been in love with Ser Loras too, but Ser Loras was a Kingsguard, and even if he returned her love one day, they could never share it. It would only end in tragedy, Lady Olenna was right. Besides, Ser Loras had forgotten that he’d given her a rose, and once she mentioned Ser Robar his courtesies had cooled. She didn’t want Ser Domeric’s warmth to go away. If they had to go the whole way back to Robb with Ser Domeric treating her coldly like Ser Loras had, she thought she might cry.

“Many people have been killed.” Ser Domeric’s quiet voice was distant and his eyes were far away. _Oh no… _

Sansa pulled her hands away and changed the subject before she could make things even worse. “From Runestone we’ll go on to Riverrun?”

Ser Domeric nodded. He smiled at her wistfully, and sadness lingered on his face. “Aye, my princess. If His Grace and your mother are still there. They might try to take back the North by marching east through the Vale and sailing across the Bite to White Harbor. In that case we’ll just stay in the Vale and wait for them to meet us. But if His Grace stays in the South, from Runestone we’ll ride to the Redfort, where I was fostered, and then to the Bloody Gate. Lord Royce and Lord Redfort will both want to help, I know them. They could lend us men to serve as your escort down the High Road and then the River Road. An honor guard of a hundred knights and men-at-arms, maybe more if we are lucky. Stark banners would be dangerous, but Royce and Redfort banners could protect you. They’re neutral. Your aunt the Lady Arryn won’t join the war, most like, but if we go to Lord Royce and Lord Redfort directly she shouldn’t stop them. Not for merely ensuring a lady’s safety during her travels. Worst case, it will be a safe place to wait out the fighting.”

That made sense to her. Ser Domeric might have been the only one Robb could have trusted to succeed at this task. If Aunt Lysa wouldn’t call her banners for Stark and Tully, the next best he could do would be to send one of his knights with friends in the Vale to treat with her lords directly.

“Robb chose well when he sent you for me, ser. I am glad that you are here.” She smiled at him. “Please, ser, you ought to eat too.”

Ser Domeric nodded, and then he frowned, but he picked up the bowl. He cracked open each egg before neatly consuming them, and then he tore the loaf of bread apart and ate it piece by piece.

The frown hadn’t left his face when he had finished eating and put the bowl and spoon away. _Have I truly ruined things already?_

Ser Domeric stared at the fire again. He began to stamp it out and kick dirt over the evidence of their camp. Then he put away the bedroll and began to strap the saddlebags to his horse. They were going to leave for the day’s journey soon.

He started putting his armor on. Sansa watched as she had the evening before. The kit was plain dark plate, without sigil or adornment, like the Hound’s. He could have been any knight or man-at-arms. She supposed that since for this mission secrecy was important, the plainness was necessary, but still she wondered what his own armor looked like. All the noble knights had personalized armor in the capital, elaborate or not. She wanted to ask him but he didn’t seem to be in the mood for talk. Perhaps later if things got better.

Sansa studied him as he strapped the vambraces onto his arms. He was broader and more heavily muscled than the lithe Ser Loras, taller than Joffrey but shorter than the Hound. Yesterday his arms had felt strong around her, his legs and chest hard. He did look like he could be a knight out of the songs…

“King Robb didn’t send me, princess.” Ser Domeric’s voice was only just loud enough to hear. “I came of my own accord.” His back had been toward her but now he turned to face her. He wore a dark look and his pale features were slowly coloring. His helm was still on the ground.

Sansa furrowed her brow. Her heart sped up and her tummy fluttered and she couldn’t say whether it was from fear or hope. “Why?”

Ser Domeric pressed his mouth into a thin line and then inhaled. He ran a hand over his face, and then Sansa could read nothing in his expression.

“We should be on our way, princess.” He walked to her and offered her an arm to take. She stood and he led her to his horse. He put his hands on her waist and she put her hands on his shoulders and he lifted her off the ground. He had placed her sidesaddle though his own saddle was not made for it. Then he untied his horse from the tree.

“Ser?” He hadn’t answered her question.

Then Ser Domeric moved to speak again. He took another deep breath.

“Because you weren’t wrong,” he said. “They all abandoned you. Your brother, my father, both armies. Ser Edmure too. I told them all you were important, but they wouldn’t listen. They all refused. Nobody listened. Nobody was coming.” Ser Domeric sounded like he was in pain. He turned to look straight at her, and his ghost-grey eyes were glassy.

“Because whenever the army wasn’t doing nothing, we were doing terrible things, and I couldn’t take it anymore, so I abandoned them. Because I wanted to do something good, and you deserved to be saved. Because I wanted you safe, and I wanted to save you.”

Then he gently took one of her hands, slowly placed it over his heart, closed his eyes, and sighed.

Oh! Oh. _Oh…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did Sansa's voice justice. I love her <3
> 
> When rereading her ASOS chapters I was surprised of how similar they were to the Sansa chapters in AGOT when she was still spending time with Jeyne Poole, and how different they were from the dark tones of Clash. It's almost like Sansa is regressing a bit, but then you realize that in the company of other friendly girls her age in the Tyrell cousins, her behavior/outlook is healthy and normal. At 12-14 it is normal for a highborn girl to be riding, hawking, enjoying songs during leisure time, and chattering about kissing boys. So in ASOS, Sansa gets to be normal for a few weeks. The war stole normalcy from Sansa Stark, and then after it returned, it was ripped away from her again.
> 
> But in ASOS she's still observant and her thoughts demonstrate her emotional intelligence, as do her endeavors to try to suss out what people want from her in her lunch with Lady Olenna and the gown fitting session. She's still somewhat naive and often gets things wrong (see her choice to tell Dontos about the Tyrell marriage plot, her guess that the gown came from Lady Olenna), but she's really trying to see things. She's not the savviest, but she's trying. I did my best to pick her character up from where she would have been in canon.
> 
> So, in this chapter, she tries to figure out what is going on, based on how she has come to understand the world after her time in Kings' Landing. And her expectations are subverted. So it is awkward.
> 
> Also. With Domeric's plan I wanted to avoid the 'journey up the Kingsroad' plot, which shows up in a lot of SanSan/Blackwater AU fics. (FWIW I am pretty positive towards SanSan in general). It's more realistic for the Hound to be able to make that journey with Sansa, because the Hound is Top Dog when it comes to Westerosi warriors. I don't think Domeric would believe himself up to going it alone through the heart of the Riverlands. He believes himself to be a good enough sword to be respectable but not a winner in a tourney, nothing special. Also he has inherited or assimilated Roose's caution. He has more to lose personally than the Hound did if this mission goes wrong.
> 
> It is intentional that the dialogue is awkward, over-courtly cheeseballs on both their ends. They are both trying very hard. This is not a situation which has a ready social script.


	15. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns more about the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you get to the last few paragraphs, remember, you were 14 and had cringe thoughts too.

Sansa didn’t know what to say. _What does it mean? _She hoped that it meant he loved her_, _for she so, so wanted to be loved. She wanted to ask, she wanted to _speak, _but it seemed to her that Ser Domeric wouldn’t know what to say either, for he just led his horse away from the tree, picked up the helm, and they started to walk. Sansa didn’t know whether to be disappointed that he wasn’t going to ride behind her again, or be relieved that she would be spared the terrible awkwardness. It shouldn’t be awkward to find out you were loved…

She had ridden astride yesterday, but she had still needed to cling tightly on his arm to keep steady then, as they had been going so fast. His tall red courser’s gait was very different than that of the palfreys and geldings she was used to riding. Ser Domeric’s saddle was made for a man riding to war. It was uncomfortable, and even at the slow pace Sansa felt unsteady. Whenever she tried to shift positions, she either felt precariously off balance or like the saddle’s contours were poking her hips and bottom. Ser Domeric noticed.

“I apologize for your discomfort, my princess,” said Ser Domeric. “Would you prefer to ride astride?”

_I would prefer to walk_, she thought, but she bit her tongue. Somehow, she sensed that if she voiced this out loud Ser Domeric would have a hard time choosing between granting her wish and denying it. In the legends, knights never let ladies walk if they had a horse.

“I would, ser,” Sansa said, making the choice for him. She didn’t want her poor rescuer to be any more uncomfortable than he already was. He halted, and so did his horse. He put his hands on her waist again and steadied her while she swung her leg into position. “Thank you.” It really did feel much better to ride this way.

In her mind she kept running over his words. _They all abandoned you. I told them all you were important, but they wouldn’t listen. _Shock washed through Sansa like a bucket of cold water had been poured over her head. In an instant, the earlier awkwardness seemed like it would have been better.

“Truly, ser, Mother and Robb and my uncles abandoned me?” Sansa could scarcely believe it. For so long, for as long as she could remember, Robb had been her hero. All that time she had spent praying for Robb, believing in him, all those beatings she took whenever Joffrey got angry at his progress, and Robb had abandoned her? She could feel again Ser Boros’ gauntleted fist to her stomach, how it had taken her breath away, how her hair had gotten stuck in between the finger joints when he had grabbed it, how the flat of his sword had hurt her thighs so much she thought her legs would break, and how when she stood it felt like she had been stabbed. _It will be over soon_, she had thought, then, but if Ser Domeric was right, if it had been left up to Robb, it wouldn’t have. She had gotten up and walked with what felt like knives in her thighs too proud to break before them, and had exalted at the thought of Robb killing all the Lannisters. _Did I bear all that for nothing? _She could almost taste the blood in her mouth.

She could see his lower face muscles twitch as she looked down at him. “Your brother and your uncles, yes. I do not know about your mother. All of our army’s communication with Riverrun was conducted through Ser Edmure. We did not write your mother. Ladies do not typically involve themselves in war councils, and an operation to retrieve you would have been a military matter. Many lords believed that your mother would only approve the maneuver without thinking through the consequences, so nobody asked her.” His words were clipped and bitter. _He tried, _Sansa thought. _He knew mother would want me too._

“Why didn’t they want to come for me, ser?”

“His Grace wanted to scourge the Westerlands and beat the Lannisters in the field prior to marching on King’s Landing to force a surrender from Lord Tywin and the Crown. That was why the Kingslayer was not traded for you upon capture. He is a rallying point for the Westermen, and a skilled battle commander. But after considering all that happened, the best time to make a trade would have been immediately after Oxcross.” _After_ _Oxcross, after the crossbow in my face. _“They didn’t, though, and so after the Blackwater, the Crown became too strong to defeat in the field for a trade on terms favorable to us to be worth it to them.” Ser Domeric paused. “It was also thought that a rescue operation would have proven too dangerous to your person.”

“But you came for me and I have not been hurt.”

“Aye, my princess. We have not encountered danger yet.”

Sansa thought on that for more moments. Ser Domeric said he’d abandoned the war because nobody else wanted to come for her, and he had wanted to. He loved her. That _must_ have been it – he said that he wore her favor every day and then brought her hand to his heart. It _was _like out of the songs – it was like a dream come true. Could it be so?

“Is there a reward you would have of my mother and Robb for delivering me back to them?” If he was in love with her like a knight out of the songs, then the obvious reward for coming to her rescue was her hand. But he sounded so sad. Maybe because she had apologized for kissing him, he thought that she didn’t like it, or him. Sansa wished that there was some way that she could convince him that she was all right with the prospect of marrying him, that despite her earlier apology for propriety’s sake, she did not in fact regret the kiss, that she had quite liked it. Maybe if she convinced him, his mood would improve?

But her question only deepened his melancholy. _Something is not right here, _Sansa thought. He turned his face away from her as he walked, but his horse kept on following the road. “I sought no reward, princess,” he said. “I only wanted to see you safe.” He took a breath, but his voice was still stiff. “I wish your brother had sent me. That he had cared. I came up with a plan and it was rejected. So when I saw the chance, I left the army and came here by myself. But I won’t be rewarded. I deserted the army. The usual punishment for deserters is death or the Wall. But when I was in the Red Keep, I heard they were having their deserters’ kneecaps broken, that’s rather lenient. Mayhaps if he is merciful, His Grace will spare my life. That could be my reward. My head securely on my shoulders, and my titles too. I suppose your brother will decide what happens to me when we get to him.”

Sansa pictured Robb making Ser Domeric kneel down over a block and taking his head with a greatsword, only to hold it up in front of her and make her look at it like Joffrey did. Her throat felt tight. Alone of all people, he had come for her. Not Robb, not Mother, not her Tully uncles or Aunt Lysa. _No…_

“Robb wouldn’t punish you,” she said almost desperately. _It doesn’t make sense. _“Robb’s a good king. And you’re good too… You did a good thing in coming for me. Surely he would see that. You’re the heir to the Dreadfort. He can’t just kill you or send you to the Wall. Lord Bolton wouldn’t stand by it. You don’t deserve to be punished for this…”

Ser Domeric chuckled. “It’s possible, princess. Deserters have no honor. When your liege lord calls the banners, you answer to make good on the oaths you’ve sworn. When you desert an army, you break those oaths. And the gods curse oathbreakers.” He shrugged. “At Duskendale during the battle I was leading the retreat. A few hundred men I had behind me. I let a Reacher knight draw me away from them, and when I killed the knight, I came for you. Maybe those men are dead because I left. I don’t know. I didn’t care. I should have cared. Commanders don’t just let men die on whims. Commanders serve the men serving them, as they serve their superiors.” His voice didn’t sound stiff anymore. There was something raw and genuine in it that made Sansa uneasy but she couldn’t place it.

Then he turned back to look at her. “I don’t regret it though,” he said softly. _He’s lying_, Sansa thought. _It’s on his face and in his voice. He’s not trying to hide it, he’s trying to convince himself. _

“Someone had to save you. You were suffering there. It’ll be worth it when you’re safe.” He sighed and straightened his shoulders. _That’s not a lie, _she thought. _He believes that. _“It won’t be so bad at the Wall. My father has a new wife. Walda’s firstborn can have the Dreadfort.” Even a baby would have been able to see through that last part.

_He’s guilty, _Sansa realized. _He came to save me because he cared when nobody else did, but he couldn’t do it without leaving his men and risking his honor as a knight. He cares about them too, but he cared about me more. _Her heart went out to him. He was a good man in a bad place. It was wrong to desert the army, yes, but it was _also wrong_ for Robb to have abandoned her in the capital at Joffrey’s mercy. He shouldn’t have had to make such a choice. Ser Domeric shouldn’t have had to risk his honor, and she knew he had honor, he was a knight sworn to protect ladies, and now he was protecting her. He shouldn’t have had to shirk his duty to come for her. Didn’t Robb have a duty to her too? As her brother, shouldn’t Robb have been protecting her? What about Robb’s honor, if Robb abandoned her?

“Robb… he’ll listen to me. I’ll ask him to spare you… He wouldn’t refuse me…” Sansa’s voice trailed off. _I pleaded with Father to spare Lady, and Father couldn’t listen. He slit her throat with Ice anyway, and Lady didn’t do anything wrong._ If Father could kill Lady for nothing, Robb could kill Ser Domeric for doing a bad thing even though he had done something good.

“Robb should have listened to your plan,” Sansa said. “He should have given the order for you to save me. Then you wouldn’t be a deserter, and no one would question your honor.” _Or his._

“Aye, my princess,” he said. “If your brother had been a good king, he would have sent me to you. Maybe then he would have rewarded me.” He chuckled darkly. “Better yet, he would have traded the Kingslayer for you ten moons ago. Then this war would have been over and we would all be back home in the North already. We’d have a full harvest and the Ironmen wouldn’t have dared invade. Your brothers would be alive too.”

“You do not think Robb is a good king.” It wasn’t a question. The iron taste of disappointment crept into Sansa’s mouth. Joffrey was a bad king, and the whole realm hated Joffrey. Sansa had seen it during the bread riots. But Sansa had only ever heard horrible things about Robb from the Lannisters. She had assumed that Robb was good, that his Northmen must have loved him. But here was Ser Domeric, who had been with Robb’s army the whole time, and the way he told it… _the Ironmen… Bran and Rickon… oh_… _no_…

“No, I do not, my princess. I am sorry.” Ser Domeric was staring at the road as he led his horse. “His Grace is beloved, but he makes a poor king. Outside the field, all of his choices have led to ruin. He abandoned the autumn harvest to start a campaign on the heels of winter. He sent Theon Greyjoy away and all but invited the Ironborn to sack the North. He broke his betrothal pact with the Freys by marrying Jeyne Westerling. He doomed many people he left up North.” He turned to look at her again. The tightness in his face was lessening. It looked like he was having an easier time talking about Robb than about anything else this morning.

“A bad king can be loved, and a good king can be hated. It’s best to try to be a good king first. Then you will be respected. The feelings of the smallfolk, the love or hate or fear, that’s all less important than respect.” The vague echo of the Queen’s drunken ranting bounced off the back of Sansa’s mind. She hadn’t asked for a lecture but the talk seemed to be helping him. She could have cut in to defend her brother, but her brother wasn’t here, and Ser Domeric was, and Sansa had the sinking sense that everything would be safer if Ser Domeric felt at ease.

“And loyalty,” he continued, “what use is a king who leads his leal men to die for naught, who starves his leal smallfolk? The bond between liege and vassal binds two ways. A good king asks his sworn men no service that would do them dishonor. He dispenses justice according to the laws of the land. He defends his vassals and his smallfolk when they or their lands are attacked. When his people are starving, he feeds them, even if he has to starve himself. A place at his hearth, meat and mead at his table. Do these things, and you are a good king. Love and fear arise from how you achieve these ends. A good king in these respects must do much to earn his people’s hatred. Do much, and do it publicly. Burn nobles like Aerys did, for example. Commit crimes against the gods. Breach the rights of the nobility, or try to take them away.

“Whether he leads his army from the front or from the back does not matter. Leaders at the front are the stuff of songs, aye, they buy love for the future. How loved a king is early in his reign is owed to his forebears. Your brother is loved because your father was a good ruler, as were Lord Rickard and those before him.” Sansa nodded at him and smiled. At least he sounded like had put more thought into this than the Queen.

They proceeded in silence for many minutes. Ser Domeric was no longer as tense or as sad, and she supposed that was good, but as Sansa sat astride his horse her heart sank and sank and sank. Questions were formed in her mind and fell down into her belly like counterweights. Was Robb truly a bad king? Was it his fault Bran and Rickon were dead? And Ser Domeric…Would Robb truly kill him for deserting? Or send him to freeze on the Wall with common criminals? It didn’t make sense, but the thought was terrible. All these new thoughts were _terrible_! She had thought things were going to get better… She knew it had been too good to be true! A gallant knight who loved her had raced across the kingdom wearing her favor to free her from the Lannisters and return her to her family, but instead of rewarding him with her hand in marriage, Robb might end his life instead. Ser Domeric was good. He didn’t deserve it. He was a hero! He was her chance at love… It wasn’t fair. The Hound was right. Nothing was fair.

“Isn’t there anything you could do so that Robb wouldn’t punish you?” Her eyes were watering. She hoped she could stop her tears, hold her voice steady. She didn’t want to make things more awful than they already were.

Ser Domeric turned towards her again, and he must have seen the tears threatening to fall, because he pulled out the pink handkerchief and handed it to her again. She dabbed at her eyes and held it in her hand. The silk was very soft.

“Perhaps if I convinced Lords Royce and Redfort not just to send not just an escort but both their armies to fight for your brother. Better if Waynwood, Hunter, Templeton and Belmore could come too, I have friends in those houses. Combined they control nearly half the knights of the Vale, twenty thousand men. Then your brother might have a chance at winning the war. If I could do that, I’d truly deserve both a pardon and a reward.” What he left unsaid was that Robb cared about winning the war more than he cared about her.

“But that won’t happen, princess. Your aunt the Lady Arryn has forbidden it. The lords of the Vale won’t disobey their liege lady. ‘Twould go against their honor.”

_ I’ll do anything, _Sansa decided. _ I’ll do anything and say anything I can so Aunt Lysa and the Vale lords will help Robb win. I’ll make them see. _She didn’t know any of them besides Lord Royce, but Lord Royce was Father’s friend, and Ser Domeric said that he wanted to help. Queen Cersei had said tears were a woman’s weapon. Maybe if she got down on her hands and knees and begged and cried prettily enough the lords of the Vale would be so moved they would want to help too. But maybe that wouldn’t work, either. She’d begged Joffrey for mercy for Father and it hadn’t worked.

“Do you truly think Robb is going to lose, ser?”

Ser Domeric sighed. “Aye, princess. He lost when the Ironmen took Winterfell and killed your brothers, when Stannis lost and the Tyrells joined the Lannisters. The last straw was when His Grace reneged on his pact with the Freys and married Jeyne Westerling. Foolish, that was. The Frey alliance gave him near on two thousand swords and passage across the Green Fork. Not worth much, most would say, but not nothing, like the Westerlings. The Westerlings are barely noble anymore, and they’re sworn to the Lannisters. And her mother is a _Spicer, _they were common Essosi merchants not two generations ago. At least the Freys have been around for eight hundred years. ‘Twas dishonorable for His Grace to break his betrothal to the Frey girl, all for nothing but to spare an enemy’s daughter the shame of a broken maidenhead. When we at Harrenhal heard of it we were all confused. So stupid, that was. Now the Freys have turned their cloaks on him.” Then Ser Domeric frowned. “Your brother should have talked to them before crossing the bridge. The Frey girls. Gotten to know them, who their families were. I talked to them all, before my father’s wedding. My father married a Frey. Some of them were quite lovely or well connected. If he had married Ser Walton’s daughter, Walda, he might have gotten Frey swords _and _Vale swords and prevented all this mess.”

The words spilled from his lips like wine from a smashed decanter. He was speaking naturally, easily. She knew he was telling the truth. There was a lot to take in. Sansa hadn’t known that Robb had a betrothal, let alone broken one, and that Robb was married now. She hadn’t known many things about the war, except for the battles that Robb had won. The Queen hardly kept her well-informed. The Queen had made Sansa believe Robb was _winning! _Ser Domeric knew a lot about the war, though. Oh, what was Robb doing? Why had he abandoned his own sister, only to dishonor himself for some common girl from the Westerlands? Mother and Father had taught them all about the importance of betrothal pacts. They were oaths. Robb was an oathbreaker now. Even his bannermen were abandoning him…

“‘Twas why I chose to come here. The war is lost. The whole thing’s pointless. It’s not worth it. At Duskendale, three thousand good Northmen were sent off to die for no good reason. I tried to tell Glover and Tallhart, but they didn’t listen to me, and now they’re probably dead. I didn’t want to fight in the war anymore. By the end the army was just abusing the smallfolk as badly as the Lannisters had, if not worse. So now I’ve left, because if there was anyone worth fighting for, it was you.”

That was a different story than what he had said earlier. Or was it? He’d said that he’d come because no one else was coming for her. But he’d also said that the army was doing terrible things, and so he abandoned them. That must have been it. Whatever terrible things the army had done must have been the last straw, yet still he cared for all of the men he’d left behind. _He is good, _Sansa thought again. _He cares about everyone. He is good and he is brave. _

The sun was high in the sky. Ser Domeric had led them off of the road slightly, on the side where the ocean was, near a copse of trees. Most like they were going to stop for a rest and a meal. He met her eyes then, and Sansa felt her face warm and her heart beat faster. He looked nervous, ashamed, even, but why should be he ashamed for helping her? Did love make men nervous like it made maidens? She looked into his face and only saw questions.

“You truly relieve that my brother would punish you for leaving to bring me back?” It didn’t make sense to her. It couldn’t possibly be true. Not Robb. Not the brother she had known. But the brother she had known was just a boy, not a king. Sansa never met Robb the king.

_Joffrey seemed different too,_ she thought. _Joffrey was kind and gallant, and you only stopped loving him once he killed Father. And he only killed Father when he became king. _No. She could not. She should not think that Robb was like Joffrey. No. She would not. Robb had never hurt her. Robb would never do that.

Ser Domeric only sighed. “It sets a poor precedent not to, my princess. If deserters are rewarded, every craven would do it. Think of the smallfolk. Farmers who’ve only held hoes, not spears. That’s what an army is. And if they got wind of me getting rewarded, your brother’s army would scatter at the first chance. That’s why deserters get beheaded or sent to the Wall. So the army will stay together. I won’t be rewarded, princess. The best I’ll make off with is a pardon for myself.” Yes. She remembered. She learned the law at lessons too.

“You knew this and you came for me anyway?” Sansa stared at the pink favor in her hands_. He loves me, he loves me, I know it. He didn’t say he loves me, but he wore my favor and risked his own honor for my sake. Why else would he have done those things? He is good and brave and he is intelligent and he loves me. He knew he would be punished and he came for me anyway._ _He deserves more than just a pardon from punishment. He’s a hero. He deserves a hero’s reward._

Ser Domeric blinked at this. His pale eyes narrowed. “No,” he said, so softly, so slowly. Then he flushed pink. “To be honest I only realized what I had done this past evening. I didn’t think of that before. I should have, but I didn’t. I just wanted to get out, and when I was out, I was happy.” He moved to help her off of his horse. “I think I might have come even if I had known. I… I hated it there. At Harrenhal. And I hated what your brother was doing. What my father was doing.” For a moment he looked like he was someplace else. “Bringing you back was the only thing worth doing, once your father was dead.”

Sansa gripped his shoulders as he lifted her onto the ground. Once she was standing steady, she looked up into his face, but she did not move her hands. There it was again. The guilt, the shame, the nervousness. _He has nothing to be guilty for. He has nothing to be ashamed of. I do not want him to be nervous around me. _She lifted the pretty square of silk to look at it again, and then gave him a hopeful smile. “You truly wore this every day? Over your heart?”

“Aye,” he said. She could barely hear him, but she could sense the tightness in his voice. The muscles around his mouth were twitching, but his eyes shone like moons, and she hoped that what she saw there was hope, too.

_He really is comely_, she thought. _Not shining and golden like Joff or beautiful like Ser Loras, but comely all the same. He is good and he is brave and he is intelligent, and he is comely._

“Then you are my knight, and I am your lady.”

“I am your knight, and you are my lady. My princess.”

“Like in the songs?”

“Aye, like in the songs.”

Perhaps her life could be a song after all. The King and the Queen were the monsters, and they had trapped her in a tower, and she was a princess from a rival kingdom. She had suffered, yes, but the princess always suffered a long time before her knight rescued her. The knight and his lady always needed to pass all of the tests together before them on their adventures before they were wed, that’s why the songs were so long, why the legends kept you breathless before the end. At every turn there would be villains and battles and all sorts of obstacles in their way. She already knew some of them. They’d need to convince the Vale lords to help Robb win the war. They’d need to defeat the Lannisters and the Freys too. They’d need to convince Robb that no matter what he had done, the knight of the Dreadfort deserved the Princess of Winterfell. The monsters didn’t have to win. The heroes could, if they tried.

Sansa was tired of sadness, of nightmares and shattered dreams. There was a good life in front of her and maybe if she did all the right things and said the right words to win over the right people and the gods smiled and heard her prayers, she would have it. She would have the Dreadfort, she would have Robb and Mother near, and with the flayed man around her shoulders no one would ever dare hurt her again. She would have to be brave to get there, but she was a Stark. She could be brave.

_I will love him, _Sansa decided. _I will love him because he is good and he cared and he didn’t forget me. Because he loves me, and he came for me. Because I want to hope that things will be good again._

The autumn day was bright, the sky clear and blue and cloudless. To the west, golden fields bursting with wheat and corn and barley trembled and shone with every breath of the salty sea wind. The seabirds were calling to each other and a sweet southron breeze tickled her face, pleasant and cool. All her nerves were humming along with the air, warm and ripe with life before the harvest and winter and cold, cold frost would claim it all. The sunshine was gleaming on her knight’s dark plate, and when she placed a hand on his breastplate, it was warm. The sad, sad look on Ser Domeric’s face had long fled, and in its place was a tiny, tiny smile, and his eyes were smiling too. _It’s perfect, _Sansa thought. _This moment is perfect_.

“I would thank you,” Sansa said. “My knight from the songs.”

Then she tipped up her face, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips to his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The goal of this chapter was to show Sansa's reaction to Robb abandoning her and to showcase her emotional intelligence.
> 
> If you are puzzled about the things that Domeric is saying... just think about what he is not saying, and then it will make more sense. But it isn't supposed to really make sense, because he is still an unwilling passenger on the strugglebus.
> 
> I debated cutting the last biggish paragraph but decided to keep it despite its floridity. Sansa's chapters are very vivid and atmospheric, especially the Tourney of the Hand chapter. She is the kind of person who thinks in purple prose, like in a romance novel.
> 
> I hope the character development makes sense. I truly think that if a knight in shining armor showed up for Sansa at this point in her life she would both retain the strength and observational skills she developed while also regaining some of her idealism and hope for the future. Everybody deserves some hope in this universe (except for Ramsay, Ramsay doesn't need hope).
> 
> Not much time has actually passed, but highly emotional moments seem to stretch on forever. It will stay this way for the next few Sansa chapters. The plot will slow down a bit for the sake of character development. And I hoped you enjoyed Dany mooning over Daario.


	16. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets an impromptu lecture on history and philosophy. And fluff moments.

“My Princess was insincere in her apology to me.”  
  
That was what Ser Domeric said to her when the kiss was done. He wasted no time in turning away to retrieve their bag of food, but not before he had given her the most inscrutable of expressions. No, not inscrutable. The muscles in his jaw were tensing and relaxing.  
  
His smile was gone. He had been smiling before. Sansa had been hoping for him to smile more brightly and profess his love for her with words. Then she would have told him that she loved him too, and they would have gone on to talk about how to best get the lords of the Vale to declare for Robb. Now she didn’t know what to do. _I’ve ruined it_, she thought, and for a moment she heard Queen Cersei laughing at her. _Would the Queen have ruined this?_  
  
“Does my princess have no care for propriety?” His words were very deliberate, his tone very even, and it did not sound like he was japing. One of his eyebrows inched upward, and suddenly Sansa was aware that the light of the southron sun had heated the steel of his breastplate to a near painful degree. She jerked her hand away and covered her mouth. _Love is poison,_ Queen Cersei had said, and Sansa didn’t want her to be right.  
  
Sansa shook her head violently and started stammering. _I thought… I thought… I didn’t think… _ “N-no, I do, what I meant was, I thought... I wanted... to thank you... like in the songs...”  
  
While Ser Domeric was rummaging in his saddlebags Sansa heard him exhale sharply, and then inhale, and then do it again nine more times. _He’s still nervous, _she realized, but she was nervous too, and the knowledge did not kill the frenetic trembling in her blood. He handed her the bowl with the bread and the cheese and the salted meat and she saw it shaking. There was nothing to sit on here, so he spread his spare saddle blanket on the ground. Sansa kept standing. Her legs were lead.  
  
“My princess has already thanked me. Perhaps she has forgotten?”  
  
His blank face and deadpan tone only made the jittery feeling worse. The bats in her tummy would not stop flapping about. Ser Domeric thought her improper, and Mother and her septa had said that that was a perilous thing for a man to think of a maiden. Now it was all ruined. He might still take her to Robb, but now he wouldn’t want to marry her, wouldn’t want to help Robb win the war, and Robb would sell her off to someone who only wanted her claim to Winterfell, and then Robb would lose and die and she’d be all alone. It would be all ruined, and nobody would ever love her…  
  
“I-I’m sorry, ser,” Sansa stuttered. She wanted to cover her face with her hands. She could hear Lady Olenna telling her that she was a pomegranate as if the old woman were standing right next to her.  
  
Then Ser Domeric’s face fell, and he looked as though he were ashamed. “It is I who should be sorry, princess,” he said. “I should not have teased you so. ‘Twas unkind of me.” He motioned towards the blanket. “Please, princess, sit and eat. We should not tarry long here, only enough for my horse to rest.”  
  
_Oh_. Robb and Jon and Arya had teased her, a hundred years ago in Winterfell, but she had always been able to tell with them, to understand. Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel never teased her, they only teased Arya, but the Tyrell cousins did once or twice, and she had been able to tell with them too. Joffrey never teased her. He made his meanings clear.  
  
Sansa sat down and did her best to hide her face in the bread while still eating as delicately as possible.  
  
It was terribly awkward again. It wasn’t awkward before, when they were talking about the war, but talking about the war made Ser Domeric unhappy, and it would make her unhappy too.  
  
In the end, when she’d finished with the bread and the cheese and the meat, Sansa apologized profusely for a second time and warbled about how she didn’t mean to be improper, how she thought it was proper and right and good because that’s what the songs were like, and how everything in the capital had just been so awful that she wanted to believe things were going to get better because he came to save her and it must have meant that he was a true knight and they had all said that true knights didn’t exist, and that she was silly and stupid for believing it all, and that she was sorry. The dream had been a better excuse.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she finished. Sansa wanted to fade into the dust and blow away with the wind.  
  
“Do not apologize to me, my princess. There is no need.” Now he was frowning again. _Oh no oh no oh no... _  
  
Sansa dragged her gaze away from the ground. Ser Domeric was studying her with something that looked like concern. He did not seem nervous anymore.  
  
“Things will get better for you, my princess. I promise. When we get to Runestone you will want for nothing. No one will hurt you there. Lady Ysilla and Ser Andar’s wife will treat you kindly. I hope they will prove friends to you.”  
  
Sansa handed the bowl with the food back to him.  
  
“I have a full wineskin if you would like wine, my princess.”  
  
“I would like wine, thank you, ser.” If she was drinking wine, she would not be talking. While Ser Domeric put down the bowl of food and retrieved the wineskin, Sansa pulled the snood out of the pocket in her cloak and began to pin it in place.  
  
Ser Domeric turned to give her the wineskin. “You covered your hair,” he said wistfully. “Better that way, I suppose. Safer.” Then he took off his gauntlets, picked up the bowl and began to eat himself.  
  
Sansa took a sip if the wine. Only a few moments afterwards did she begin to feel more at ease. The wine was sweet. The wine was strong. She handed it back to him and he drank as well. Then he took another deep breath.  
  
“I do not believe you are stupid, you know,” he said as he broke off a crust of bread. “Not for believing in the songs, or wanting life to be like them. Songs are beautiful. No. Stupid is something else.” He ate the bread. “I believe that life ought to be beautiful like the songs, and I have been told that I am passably intelligent. Do you think me stupid too, my lady?”  
  
He did not sound like he had been insulted. Instead he sounded patient, and his eyes were kind. Sansa felt relieved. Perhaps things were not ruined after all.  
  
“No, ser. I could never. You are very intelligent.”  
  
“You flatter me by saying so, and for calling me a true knight, my lady.” Ser Domeric stared at her then, and his mouth twitched up in what might have been a smile. “That is the highest praise. A compliment I do not deserve. After what I did with my father’s army nobody would name me a true knight.” Then the might-be smile was gone, and Ser Domeric looked sad again and drank. “A true knight is all I ever wanted to be.”  
  
“You are a true knight, ser,” said Sansa. “A true knight would have come for me, and you did.”  
  
“Aye, that is why I did it. To be knightly again.”  
  
He was so different than everyone in the capital. Ser Domeric was of the North, and yet he was a knight, not only in name like so many knights in King’s Landing, but in his heart as well, she could tell. The Hound had told her that a knight’s vows meant nothing, and yet Ser Domeric seemed to treasure his. He did not call her stupid, like Joffrey and Queen Cersei and the Hound even Lady Olenna. She wondered if he would think her stupid if he found out more about how she had trusted Joffrey and the Queen, had failed Father.

As he moved on to eat the cheese and salted beef, Sansa thought on what he’d said. _Life ought to be beautiful like the songs._ Not that life was like them. She wanted so much to have that good, safe life in the North with Ser Domeric at the Dreadfort with Mother and Robb close by. She could see Winterfell whenever she wanted, whenever she was not in her confinement. They’d play the harp and sing together and host Northern tourneys on the banks of the Weeping Water and he would always be her champion, wearing her favors over his heart and around his lance. He’d always win, and she would always be his Queen of Love and Beauty. They would make beautiful children, Northern children named Brandon and Rickon and Eddard, and they would love each other so, so much. Oh, why had she ever loved Joffrey? Why had she ever loved Ser Waymar and Ser Loras? Her life would be perfect with Ser Domeric. It had seemed so close, so possible only a few short minutes ago. She had been so ready for hope, so ready to be brave. She did not want to believe it impossible again.

“Ser?”

“Aye, my princess?”

“Is life like the songs?” _Please say anything other than no._

Then he was staring at her once more, and it seemed as if the pale greyness of his eyes truly did come from ghosts.

“I knew you were not stupid, my princess. That is an intelligent question.” He began moving the fingers on one hand, as if he were playing a harp that was not there. Then he took another drink. “Songs are just stories, or expressions of feeling. Hopes and wishes, or taunts. As to the former, some people’s lives are so eventful, their deeds so great, that songs are written about them. Their lives are like songs in that the songs were made like their lives. These people become heroes and villains of memory. For the rest of us, if we imitate them, in our words and in our deeds, then our lives can become like their songs, should circumstance permit and the gods allow.” He spoke slowly, as if he was thinking, and stared into the distance. He took another drink of wine.

“_The Day they Hanged Black Robin_, for example. That is a song about something that happened to someone that lived. There’s a marker by the tree where they hanged Black Robin in Lord Harroway’s Town. I don’t remember the day it was, but it happened during the Dance. It’s a beautiful song, but it’s sad. A life can be painful, miserable, and still be like the songs. There are other songs like this, about things that really happened. _The Rains of Castamere_, about Tywin Lannister, and _Wolf in the Night_, about your brother. That one’s new. You might not have heard it.” She hadn’t. “_Six Maids in a Pool, _about Florian and Jonquil too. They were real. Jonquil’s pool is real, it’s in Maidenpool. They lived, though the song might have exaggerated some things about their life.

“Then there are songs that are taunts, rallying cries. They remind you of what may come to pass should you threaten a certain people. _Black Pines _and _Wolves and the Hills _are like this. _Steel Rain, _too. A people need live up to these taunts, these threats, if they are to keep their reputation. These songs inspire men at war, help them remember to share in their fathers’ valor. A soldier’s life should be like these songs. It’s his duty to be like them.

“Then there are love songs, which express feelings. It is easy for something in our lives to be like love songs, because many people fall in love. Many people share those feelings. We relate to the words.” Then he looked at her. “_No Featherbed for Me. _That’s about how a man wants to love his lady, and how the lady wants to be loved, and how those loves are different. _My Lady Wife,_ about coming to find comfort and joy and passion in the duty to one woman alone.” His stare had softened, and the ghostliness in it left. Then he smiled at her, and it wasn’t so small. _He loves me_, she thought, and she smiled back. _And I love him._

“_Let Me Drink Your Beauty _is an easy one to understand. As are _Two Hearts that Beat as One, _and _Seasons of My Love._ ‘I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair.’

“Do you take my meaning, my princess?”

“Life can be like the songs, if you make it so, if you try. Many people’s lives can be like love songs.” Sansa hoped that she was correct. Then he nodded at her, and she felt the gladdest she had since Father died.

“Do you think your life is like the songs, ser?”

Ser Domeric paused to think again and took another drink. “I suppose it is. When I was a boy, my mother told me the story of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. A knight from the Reach, aye, but a knight of the First Men, who kept the old gods, from before the Andals came. The Targaryens tried to say he was in Aegon the First’s Kingsguard, but everyone knows he lived in the Age of Heroes. I used to pretend I was him when I was a boy, playing at swords. I thought of him when I was in the Red Keep. He saved a princess, too. So I suppose my life is like his song in a small way, but only because I wanted it that way, and chose to be like him.”

“Then we can make our lives like the songs.” _And_ _I can make the life I want._

“Aye, we can. If the gods will it.”

*******

Sansa could not remember smiling so much since she had left the walls of Winterfell, and perhaps she had not smiled as much back then either. Somehow the walk to Rosby on the dusty road in her dirty, smelly clothes with only Ser Domeric and his horse for company was so much more delightful, made her so much _giddier_ than any day spent in a pretty gown with Jeyne or Beth or the Tyrells did. In the capital, before everything awful happened, she’d thought she was happy; after, she’d felt she’d only known happiness in Winterfell with her family. Now she knew that she had been wrong on both accounts. Here on the Rosby Road, dressed in rough brown wool, the bats in her tummy turned to bubbles in her heart. She was floating.

Ser Domeric was wonderful. After they’d finished their lunch and watered his horse, they’d continued walking north. He was so easy to talk to now that all of the awkwardness was gone. Almost everything he said made her giggle. It was very easy to trust him, to tell him things and ask him questions and then hang onto every word when he answered. He’d come for her. He’d fought for her brother. He was a Northman. She could trust a Northman.

Sansa refrained from asking about Lord Bolton, since his mention seemed to make Ser Domeric frown, but she asked about his mother’s family, and he could talk for ages about them, the Ryswells and Lady Dustin. “The only thing my dear cousins of Ryswell like better than arguing,” he’d said, “is settling their argument with a horserace. Or a fistfight. They’re almost like Umbers, only shorter, quieter, and better looking. And with better horses. Of course.” “My aunt keeps Barrowton as clean as White Harbor. I think Barrowton is better, you can get goods from all of Westeros there, and still it’s small enough to know all the faces. And the wood is homier than the marble.” His eyes had gone wide when Sansa had said that she’d never been to Barrowton or the Rills. “You will like it there, I know it,” he’d said. “You must see them when we go back North.” Sansa hoped that he would take her himself.

After they made camp for the evening, they started playing a game. Ser Domeric would whistle the first few notes of a song, and Sansa would have to tell him which one it was. If she got it correct, she would whistle first few notes of the next song, and he would need to name it, but if she got it wrong, he would keep whistling until she got it right, and if he got to the end without her naming the song, nothing happened. They would just laugh together, and then he’d sing the whole thing, so she’d know it the next time. It was good to be able to enjoy the things she liked again.

“Ser Domeric?” she said after the game was done. “Do you have a favorite song?” She’d told him _her _favorite song was _Six Maids in a Pool_ when they were playing their game.

“Aye, I do. It’s _Off to Gulltown_. Because when I go to Gulltown, I’m always happy. It either means I am going to the Vale, or going back North to visit my mother’s family after seeing my father.” Then he paused. “And I suppose we are going off to Gulltown now.” He paused again and smiled at her, stretching his legs.

“I don’t know _Off to Gulltown.”_

“No? I’ll sing it for you, then._ Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho. I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho._ _I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho…”_

Sansa furrowed her brow. “I don’t think I like that song very much, ser.”

“Oh? Why not, my princess?”

She looked into the fire and told him about the Battle of the Blackwater and how the Hound had come to her room that night. It was hard to talk about, but she got it all out. All of it. The Queen and Ser Ilyn Payne, sending for a maester for Lancel who she should have let die, the green fire, the smell of smoke and the sound of screams and suffering. He was a patient listener. He understood. He’d been in battles too.

Ser Domeric’s gaze grew dark when she finished speaking about the Hound. “He will never hurt you again. I promise you.” He poked the fire with a stick. “I will never sing that song again, if you like, but if you do not mind the tune, I can always change the words.”

She liked it when he said that. _I can always change the words. _It made her feel hopeful.

“It would be good, ser, if you changed the words,” she said. “The tune is pretty.” She bit into her bread.

“How about this? _Off to Gulltown with the sweetest of maids, heigh-ho, heigh-ho. She’ll give me a kiss and I’ll swear her my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho…_”

Sansa clapped for him in approval. “Did you bring your harp with you, ser?” Ser Domeric was the best harpist she’d ever met, better than herself and Lady Leonette, and even better than Hamish the Harper and all the singers in King’s Landing, whose music was their trade. It would be good to hear him play.

“No, my princess, I am sorry, but it had to be left at Harrenhal.” Sansa had quickly learned not to mention Harrenhal or what Ser Domeric did afterward. Every time Ser Domeric spoke of it, his eyes would go flat and Sansa thought that he was going away inside like she had so often in King’s Landing. So she tried her best to avoid mentioning it, and every time he had to bring it up, she would change the subject.

“That’s all right.” She watched him take a sip of wine. “Tell me, ser, does your horse have a name?” Ser Domeric loved his horses. At the Dreadfort was working on a project to introduce the hardy, winter-ready traits of the mountain clans’ garrons into the fast Ryswell coursers, but it was probably too soon to know the outcome yet. Sansa wished now that she had spent more time learning about horses with Arya so she could ask him better questions. It hurt to think about Arya, likely dead._ I miss you, sister. I hope that wherever you are, you are smiling too._

“His name is Rhaegar,” he began, “for the Dragon Prince. My grandfather Rodrik gave him to me when I became a man grown and I returned from the Vale. A fine red stallion for the son of the Red Kings, he said.” He seemed apprehensive about this, for his smile turned into a frown.

“Oh? Why Rhaegar Targaryen?” It was a strange name for a horse. Rhaegar Targaryen had started the Rebellion by kidnapping Aunt Lyanna. Then he raped her and left her to die in Dorne when he left to fight the Battle of the Trident. She didn’t know any more about him. Father didn’t like to talk about the Rebellion. All she knew about the last Targaryens came from lessons with Master Luwin. So she let Ser Domeric explain. She liked to hear him talk. She liked his voice.

“Please forgive me if that offends you, my princess. I know the pain he caused your family might still be fresh.” It was too distant to be painful to her. “My lady mother and Aunt Barbrey were well acquainted with your Aunt Lyanna. Raced her at horses in the Rills when she came to visit your uncle Brandon in Barrowton. She shamed them both to my grandfather, she did, beating the Ryswell sisters every time. She – she would never have let herself been captured, abducted. Rhaegar would never have caught her; she would have outrun him on her horse, had he given chase.” That sounded right. Father never spoke of her, but the older members of Winterfell’s household had said that Arya was like Aunt Lyanna, and that sounded like something Arya would do if she ever discovered a man she liked. _Oh, Arya… _

“No one could ever force her into anything, so they say. I do not believe that King Robert’s tale was true – that he stole her, raped her, locked her in a tower held her against her will. When your lord father found her, she was in the Tower of Joy. So said my Aunt Barbrey. We had kin with your father, so he had to tell my family. What kind of name is ‘Tower of Joy’ if not one for a den of love? By my lights, my Princess, Rhaegar was good and decent, who would have made a just king. Certainly better than Mad Aerys and even King Robert, who drank and whored and beat Queen Cersei into the Kingslayer’s arms.”

Sansa remembered King Robert’s drunken shouting at the Queen during the feast at the Hand’s tourney so long ago. It was easy to believe that someone like Arya would want to run away from marrying someone like him. And she knew what they said about Ser Jaime and the Queen and Joffrey and his siblings. The Queen cared for Ser Jaime so, and always resented King Robert. Were the rumors really true? _Brotherfucker. Brotherfucker. Brotherfucker, _the crowd had chanted, but it didn’t matter to her. No matter who Joff’s true father was, the Kingslayer or King Robert, they were both awful, not as awful as Joff, but awful in their own ways. And Sansa did not know what to think about Ser Domeric was saying about Prince Rhaegar. For all that she hadn’t been born yet, he had only been a babe during the Rebellion too. And Ser Domeric liked love songs. Maybe he liked to think of the Rebellion as a sad love song, just not the one King Robert had the bards sing.

“Your Aunt Lyanna was his lady love and he her silver prince. She went with him because she wanted to and loved him in return. The whole affair was quite unfortunate. If not for the Faith of the Seven’s business with Maegor the Cruel, we might have had a beloved Northern queen today. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, after all. Something must have happened that she could not send word to Lord Rickard or Brandon or your father. Elsewise there may not have been a war. Aerys’ death was necessary, aye, but not Rhaegar’s. Rhaegar had the makings of a great man, a great man with a great love. A love that burned so hot that half the realm was put to fire. The whole Rebellion was a waste of life, just like this war has been.” Then he sighed. “Would it were that we could all have loves so great.”

Ser Domeric sounded very far away at this last part. Was it the thought of the war that haunted him so? That must be it. She didn’t want him to think that she didn’t love him. _We will have a great love,_ Sansa thought. _I know we will. _

“I hope that does not offend you, my princess.”

“It doesn’t,” she said, but she was not done thinking. “Thank you for the story.” He still looked distant. Sansa did not feel like talking either.

If Aunt Lyanna had truly broken her betrothal to run off with Prince Rhaegar, her love had started a war and had gotten her, Uncle Brandon, and herself killed. Sansa hoped that it would be different with Robb. He broke a betrothal too, and broken betrothals begat rebellions and betrayals. _We will help Robb win, and then betraying the Freys won’t matter_. _We’ll get the Vale to help and the rest of Robb’s kingdom won’t be put to fire. Just Winterfell. The Freys alone couldn’t beat the North, the Riverlands, and the knights of the Vale._

Sansa wondered what Jeyne Westerling looked like. She was from the Westerlands, and when Sansa imagined the Westerlands, all she could think of was gold. Gold like the Gold Road and the Golden Tooth. Gold like the golden lions of Lannister. But there was silver in the Westerlands too. Silver like Silverhill, and the silver beneath Castamere. _What does Jeyne Westerling look like? _She thought. _Is she gold or is she silver? _There was only one woman that Sansa would ever see when she thought of a golden queen. She tried to imagine Robb and a silver queen, but all she saw in her mind’s eye was a Targaryen, and the Westerlings were much lower than Targaryens. _There was a Targaryen queen named Jeyne Westerling too. She was Maegor the Cruel’s wife. _She didn’t like that thought. Robb could never be Maegor the Cruel. _That Jeyne Westerling had brown hair._ Robb’s queen must be have had brown hair.

Margaery would be a queen with brown hair, too. But Jeyne Westerling was from the Westerlands and wouldn’t look like Margaery, who was all Reacher, born and bred. She would look like a Westerwoman. It was in her name. Jeyne Westerling._ She must have been so beautiful for Robb to have broken his oath to the Freys. So beautiful that his heart would have broken to leave her._ When Sansa tried to picture a beautiful woman, all she could see was Mother, and Margaery, and the Queen. It was queer to think of Robb marrying a woman who looked like Mother, and she already knew Jeyne Westerling wouldn’t look like Margaery. No, she must have looked something like the Queen, because the Queen was from the West, and all of the Queen’s ladies had something of the West about them, something in the shape of their faces, the shape of their eyes. And no matter how evil she was, the Queen was undeniably the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen. That was something right about her, even though everything else about her was wrong. Queens ought to be beautiful. Robb’s queen, Jeyne, must certainly be beautiful too. That was what her imagination settled on when she pictured Jeyne Westerling. She looked like Cersei Lannister, only with brown hair, and she was so, so beautiful.

“Ser?”

“Aye, my princess?”

“Is Jeyne Westerling Robb’s lady love?”

Ser Domeric grew quiet and started thinking, then. “Might be,” he said, “or it might be that he thought that marrying her was only the right thing to do after ruining her. For her honor, and for his. Or,” and here he frowned, “it could have been a plot by the Lannisters. The Westerlings are sworn to them after all. Get Jeyne into bed with your brother, get his crown, turn the Freys, and then have him stabbed in the night or poisoned at a meal. Then the Lannisters win the war. Or she could be reporting everything she sees and hears back to Lord Tywin, and the Lannisters win the war then too. Whatever the reason, His Grace was a fool to marry her, pardon me, princess. And he was a fool not to come for you.”

There was silence for a long moment. _I hope Robb loves her, _Sansa thought with acid in her mouth. _I hope Jeyne Westerling loves him too. I hope she is worth it to him. _She closed her eyes, and in her mind, she saw her brother Robb, arm in arm with a younger version of Cersei Lannister, with brown hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ice had to break eventually. Everyone is glad that it's no longer awkward. Especially Domeric who hadn't spoken to a lady since his dad got married, which was like... 6 months ago or thereabouts. Servants don't really count. And before Harrenhal, the last time was probably at Moat Cailin with Catelyn, which was a further 5-6 months before that. He is rusty.
> 
> Sansa isn't as awkward on her end because she has been dealing with Joffrey and Dontos and the other noblemen in the court. But she can still get super embarrassed. Wouldn't you be embarrassed too? Boltons can't really tell joke jokes, the most they can manage is deadpan that makes you think you're the joke instead of the actual joke that was told. They're brutal. 
> 
> Poor Jeyne :( Getting badmouthed by someone who never even met her. Jeyne, it wasn't your fault. But I imagine these sorts of thoughts were going around the minds of everyone who wasn't at the Crag, and even probably people at the Crag. I'm looking at you, Smalljon and Olyvar. Or even Black Walder. Never thought I'd say this but things might have turned out better in this AU if Robb had let Black Walder rub off on him. Or Theon. But then Robb wouldn't be Robb.
> 
> I don't think it is unrealistic for Sansa at this point to look at a handsome knight and decide she was in love with him immediately. A bit over a year ago at the Hand's Tourney she and Jeyne Poole were literally pointing at knights and deciding which ones they were "in love with", like high school girls sitting in a circle at a sleepover ranking boys in the yearbook. She fell in love with Loras in like a day, and Loras Tyrell never did anything for her. And then in Sansa II ASOS she says Willas' name into her pillow over and over again. But she really wasn't in love with Loras or Willas, was she? She was in love with the picture of life they could give her. She didn't know them at all.


	17. Sansa IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric discovers gaps in Sansa's education before arriving at Rosby.

The next day was much like the last. They broke camp and walked northeast along the Rosby Road. As the day wore on, Sansa could make out Rosby castle and the underlying town on the horizon.

“Would you tell me more about Runestone, ser?”

“What would you like to know about it, princess?”

Sansa pursed her lips and looked down on Ser Domeric from atop his horse. She wanted to know everything. “I would like to know whatever you think is important.”

“What is important? Well, it’s an ancient castle on a cliff overlooking the sea, less than a day’s ride north from Gulltown. On the other side of the water is Old Anchor. Between Gulltown and Runestone are Fotheringhay village, and then large fields of lavender. We’ll go through them, they smell wonderful, and they’re very pretty. I think you’ll enjoy them.

“Runestone is strong. Siege equipment built into the curtain walls. One of the oldest great castles in the Vale, along with the Redfort. Both castles have a proper godswood with a real heart tree, a real weirwood, instead of something like an oak like the one in the Red Keep. But Runestone’s godswood has the Runestone. As wide as a man is tall, and tall as a tree, carved with the runes of the First Men. Covered in those swirls they made. You need to read the Old Tongue to understand the parts that haven’t been weathered away. From what we can see it tells the story of how the First Men came to Westeros. Their war with the Children. The pact. The Long Night. Parts of the story are missing or chipped off, but it’s clear that the First King of the First Men landed at Runestone before he and his people spread across the continent.

“There are runes carved into the stones of the curtain walls and all the important towers and keeps to stave off evil and keep the men brave. Runes carved above the frames to every important door. The Great Hall, the nursery and the like. There are a few keeps, and a few courtyards. A sept, barracks, granaries, kitchens, a maester’s tower, a library, all the things you’d expect a castle to have. Kennels and stables. A forge and an armory. A tiltyard, a yard for training. At least one of everything. Bronze statues everywhere. Lots of bronze decorations. They like their bronze, those Royces. They were the Bronze Kings, after all.

“I am sure Lord Royce will see to it that you receive a proper tour, princess, and that you are told all you wish to know.” He took a breath. “My princess, may I ask you a question now?”

“Yes, ser, you may.”

“What do you know of the situation in the capital? Between the Lannisters and Tyrells? If Lord Royce is to be of much help to you it would be wise to share with him all you know from your time at court.”

“The situation?” Sansa frowned. “Lady Margaery is to marry King Joffrey and the Tyrells have allied with the Lannisters. With food and swords from the Reach, the Crown is very strong. King’s Landing would be rioting again if the Tyrells took their bread away.”

“Aye, my princess, but is there more that you know? Do the lion and the rose work in concert or are they strangling each other? Will they fall apart with a breath of the wind? Who has more influence, Lord Tywin or the Queen of Thorns?”

Sansa did not know how to answer any of his questions. “I… I… do not know… The Queen kept me locked in my tower most days, unless I was summoned to court or to the king. When the Tyrells came, I was invited to spend time with Lady Margaery and her companions. I never saw the Queen or her ladies there. I do not think the Queen likes the Tyrells, but the Queen likes no one. Lady Olenna and Lady Margaery asked me about how Joff was, and I told them the truth, and they’re not going to call off the wedding even knowing what he is like. I am grateful to them. They were very kind to me.” Then she blushed. “They were going to take me to Highgarden. To marry Lord Willas. For my claim to Winterfell.” Sansa hoped Ser Domeric wouldn’t be jealous.

“Then, my princess, it is a good thing that I came when I did. I would not have been able to find you in Highgarden. A match with the Tyrells is hardly better than a match with the Lannisters. Allied to the Crown, the Reach wins the North nothing. And you cannot be wed without your brother’s consent.” Ser Domeric paused but gave no indication that he was bothered at the idea of Sansa marrying Willas. For some reason that disappointed her. Then Ser Domeric frowned. “You said that the Queen was cold to you but the Tyrells were kind? Did you see anything more that would suggest… strife or discord between them and the Lannisters?”

“I could not say, ser,” she said.

“Truly? No hints, no gestures? Not even while you were riding with them outside the city? Where spies couldn’t hear?” Sansa just looked at him blankly. “You did not see it in how the court arranged itself after the Reachmen arrived?”

“I… I… no…” _Ser Domeric thinks I am stupid now, _Sansa thought, her face flaming._ And it was going so well too._

“Princess, did Lord Stark and Lady Stark teach you to ask these sorts of questions before you left for the capital? What to look for, who to trust? How to read the political situation under the mummer’s farce?” Sansa shook her head. “They did not prepare you. I would have thought… and your mother seems so good at it too. And you were to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms…” Ser Domeric was trailing off but then he looked up at her. “It does not matter. I will speak with Lord Royce. He will see that your education is completed and that you receive one as proper to the heiress to a king.”

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa said, for she did not know what else to say. Warmth was still blooming on her cheeks.

“It’s not your fault, princess,” Ser Domeric said. “Your father should never have taken you to court without preparing you.” Then he was silent for a beat. “But considering how your father was arrested after less than a year in King’s Landing and how His Grace has been stumbling from one blunder to the next, perhaps he could have done with further education himself. No offense to Lord Stark, of course.”

“Of course, ser,” Sansa said. She wasn’t offended. She was relieved that he thought it wasn’t her fault. Then the relief vanished. _It was my fault Father only lasted a year…_

Another few beats passed. “When we get to Rosby we cannot be ourselves. I am Ser Donner Stone, a hedge knight from Gulltown. Who would you like to be, princess?”

It took her a few moments to think. She first thought to be Jeyne, but she missed Jeyne Poole too much, and she didn’t want to be Jeyne like Jeyne Westerling. So she chose Beth, like Beth Cassel. “Beth,” said Sansa. “Just Beth.”

“Beth. A good name. My mother’s name,” Ser Domeric gave her a winning smile. “Who are you, Beth?” Ser Domeric had put on a funny air then. He wasn’t speaking like a Northman anymore.

“I… I… am a seamstress’ apprentice. From the capital. My mistress worked for the Queen, but she fell out of favor, and had to turn her apprentices out.” Sansa didn’t have to change her voice.

“Aye, I was in the capital for the Blackwater. And I stayed afterwards, and met you there. Wouldn’t leave without you. We were married in that sept near the River Row. Now I’m bringing you back, and we’re making a life together. I’ll find work with Lord Grafton, or the Arryns, or Lord Royce, and there’s plenty of work for seamstresses in the Vale. We’re looking for a ship in Duskendale to take us home. We’ll be Donner and Beth until we dock at Gulltown.”

It was a sweet story. It would be nice to act like she was Domeric’s wife.

“I’ll stop calling you ‘princess’, obviously. Sometimes you’ll be ‘my lady’, and sometimes you’ll be ‘Beth’, or ‘wife’. You can keep calling me ‘ser’ if you like, but I’m your husband, you’ll have to call me Donner sometimes. Or Don, if you want to seem more familiar.” He was giving her a cheeky grin.

Sansa wanted to tell him to stop calling her ‘princess’ altogether and just call her ‘Sansa’ for later, but he seemed like he was really enjoying their little mummer’s game. Ser Donner Stone had made more expressive faces in two minutes than Ser Domeric Bolton had in two days. He laughed louder, too.

“Donner?”

“Aye?”

“Why didn’t we sail from the capital?” Sansa wondered why she hadn’t thought of this question sooner. They might have been halfway to Gulltown already if they’d already boarded a ship.

“There were no ships docking at Gulltown for a few weeks, since King’s Landing is still recovering from the Blackwater. And I wanted to get out of the capital as soon as we could. It stinks. Nose couldn’t take a day more. Better to wait in Duskendale, where the air is fresher.”

They play-acted as Donner and Beth all the way to the heart of the village at the feet of Rosby’s walls. In the beginning she asked him where his accent was from, but he simply said, “Accent? My lady, I have no accent. It’s you folk from King’s Landing with the odd manner of speech. From Gulltown to the Bloody Gate, everyone talks this way. You sound stranger than a sisterman, wife.”

Sansa laughed.

***

Rosby village was much smaller than Winter Town, and Rosby castle was much smaller than Winterfell. It was even smaller than Darry, and Darry was one of the smallest castles that Sansa had seen before. It looked like there was only one tall main keep flanked by two taller towers with gently sloping roofs. If there were other buildings, Sansa could not see them beyond Rosby’s curtain walls. They came upon the windmill and a farm with a barn first, and Sansa could hear the clucking of the hens, the honking of geese, the bleating of goats and the snorting of pigs. The animals were all much louder than the cattle and the horses that had dotted the outlying wheat fields as they had walked by. The farm stank, but animal stink was healthier, heartier than the suffocating miasma of King’s Landing. After the farm was the village proper, and there were a score of daub-and-wattle huts and buildings with thatched roofs where the smallfolk lived and worked. By the signs on the huts, Sansa could see that there was a butcher, a brewer, a seamstress, a smith, and carpenter, at least. There was a small market square by the village green, and horses grazed around the well. On the other side of the green there was a small sept and a small tavern with a small stable attached. Everything about Rosby was small, it seemed.

Many smallfolk were out and about relaxing with tankards of ale in their hands in the purple light of dusk now that the day’s work was done. Ser Domeric walked them to the stables and a stableboy came to meet them. He helped Sansa dismount, but when she was steady on the ground, instead of releasing her waist, he leaned in and casually pecked the corner of her mouth. She could feel the fleeting swipe of his tongue on her skin even after he had let her go and turned away to unstrap their saddlebags, and the cool sensation of the air over the damp spot by her dimple left her nerves thrumming all the way down to her toes.

“Beth, love, please take a bag as well.” He was motioning to the bag with her clothes with his foot. Ser Domeric had the bag with his clothes and had stuffed his bedroll into the bag carrying his other things.

Sansa colored, nodded, and picked up her bag. Ser Domeric led her into the tavern.

“A room, a bath, and dinner,” he said to the tavern keep. “We’ll buy food for the road as well.”

“Twenty coppers for the room, bath, and dinner. We’ll decide on the food later.” Ser Domeric paid and they followed the tavern keep up the stairs. There was only one floor above the main hall and the kitchen, and that floor only had three rooms. It was a miracle that one was open.

“Bath’ll be ready in half an hour. We’ll ‘ave it brought up ‘ere. Supper’s on whenever ye want it. Here’s the key.” The tavern keep left and closed the door.

“You’ll bathe first,” Ser Domeric said while he was laying their bags on a chair in the corner. “I’ll be downstairs trying to get some news. I won’t start eating until you come down, and then I’ll bathe while you’re asleep. I don’t need hot water.” He rummaged in one of the bags and produced a neatly folded gown and a grey cloak. “I bought this for you, and I noticed that you didn’t bring any more clothes than the ones on your back. I’m not sure whether it will fit, but it’s something clean.”

It was a kind gesture. “Thank you, ser,” she said. “It was very thoughtful of you.”

“You are most welcome,” he said, and gave her another winning grin. He took off the armor and left to go downstairs. Sansa barred the door after the swish of his cloak.

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of her bath. Sansa lifted the bar and allowed the serving boys to haul the steaming tub inside.

“We will keep the tub until the morrow,” she told them. They both nodded and scurried back out. Sansa barred the door again, shook her hair out of the hairnet, and began stripping down to her smallclothes. Even under her shift she could tell that a layer of grime had formed on her skin. It would be good to be clean again.

With the bath came lye soap and a pumice stone for scrubbing. Sansa dunked her head under the water and began to lather herself, leaving white suddy trails up and down first her legs, then her arms, then her back and swirling in her hair. She scrubbed her limbs until they were red and raw and the clear water turned grey. _I was so dirty, _she thought. She hadn’t gone so long without a bath since Father died, when she had refused to eat or get out of bed. But she pushed the thought away as she dunked her head again. It was too sad. She was happy here.

_I wonder if the Tyrells will miss me. _Margaery had been planning to take them all hawking today, with her cousins and Merry Crane and Aly Bulwer, two days since Sansa had left the Red Keep. Megga and Alla and Elinor and had been looking forward to it. Elinor liked to hawk like Margaery, but Megga and Alla didn’t really care for it. They liked to hang back and giggle atop their horses while chirping on about Elinor and Alyn Ambrose and whether Horas or Hobber Redwyne would kiss them.

Sansa had thought them silly just two days ago but now she wasn’t so sure. _It’s not silly to want kisses, _Sansa thought. _It’s not silly to want to be loved_. _Love is not poison. The Queen is wrong. She only thinks that way because King Robert was cruel to her_ _and the person who cares for her most is her brother. When someone kind and good loves you it is different. _She dunked her head underwater again and blew bubbles in the soap on her way back up. Suddy foam clung to her face and she swatted it away, her hand lingering on the spot on her dimple where Ser Domeric had kissed her. The thought left her tingling again. _Maybe he will give me another kiss later._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to everyone in the US! Hope you had a great day with family and friends :)
> 
> I apologize if this chapter feels filler-y. A lot of it was devoted to worldbuilding. 
> 
> The description of Runestone and to an extent Rosby heavily referenced what the awesome people working on Westeroscraft built. For those of you who don't have Minecraft (it's ok I don't either) her is a link to a walkthrough of Runestone and the surrounding countryside. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epOqitYU49U 
> 
> It's a cool fandom we have beyond the fanfiction corner. My only criticism of Westeroscraft is that the scale sometimes feels a bit off, but who am I to complain, I can't really play minecraft that well. Besides, the world they built is so intricate and detailed and shows us so many places GRRM's work will never take us to.
> 
> For example... take a look at the Redfort and the surrounding area. Wouldn't you rather live there than the Dreadfort? It's like Neuschwanstein... only red :) https://imgur.com/a/Xs3OdYG
> 
> One of the goals of this chapter was to give Sansa a chance to be a 14 year old girl. She deserves it. The other goal was to show that Domeric kind of enjoys LARPing more than he enjoys being himself. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. I am glad that I have been able to create something that others have enjoyed.


	18. Sansa V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Domeric enjoy supper and after-dinner entertainment at the Rosby tavern.

Sansa smiled to herself in the Myrish glass and picked up her hairbrush. Fifty strokes later, and with a neat plait down her back, she pulled on the dark grey gown Ser Domeric had purchased for her. It didn’t quite fit – the waist was a bit loose and an inch or two of heel showed over the hem – but it was _nearly_ the right length and it wouldn’t fall off. Besides, it was more comfortable too loose than too small.

She rolled her plait into a ball and fixed the pearled hairnet in place. _I look like I am in mourning_, she thought. She wanted to leave her hair free and put on the prettiest jewels she had in her bag, but those were Sansa Stark’s jewels, and here she was just Beth the seamstress’ apprentice. Beth didn’t have jewels. The hairnet was probably the nicest thing Beth owned. Who was Beth mourning? Sansa Stark could be said to be mourning Bran and Rickon and Arya and Father, but it didn’t feel right. She was too happy to be mourning.

Sansa grabbed her skirts and made for the common room downstairs.

Ser Domeric was sitting at one of the long tables. He had saved her a place beside him by placing his cloak next to him on the bench. He had a wine cup in front of him and was looking at nowhere in particular. When he saw her, his face lit up like steel under the sun. He rose to help her sit, and then caught a serving maid’s attention. “Wine for my lady,” he said, and the maid scurried away into the kitchens.

Ser Domeric slung his arm around Sansa’s shoulder as if he had done it a hundred times before. He gave her another breezy smile and when he did, she could see that his lips were stained with the deep purple tones of strongwine.

“I trust that all was to your liking, my lady?”

Sansa could only smile and nod. Sitting next to Ser Domeric with his arm around her shoulder left her full to bursting with a sort of nervous energy she’d never felt before. She started to wring her hands together on the table, but Ser Domeric quickly brought his other hand over hers to still them.

“I think I shall purchase a horse for you on the morrow,” he said. “Lord Gyles does not ride often, and he has instructed his stablemaster to put some of his older stock up for sale. Would you like that?”

“I would like that, ser,” Sansa said. Ser Domeric gave her hands a squeeze. She wanted to say something, but there were many people in the tavern, and she did not know what sorts of conversations were appropriate for a traveling hedge knight and his wife. “How many days until Duskendale if we both ride?”

“One, maybe two,” he said, “three if we go very slowly.”

Then Sansa’s wine and the food came, and she was relieved from further conversation. The maid refilled Ser Domeric’s cup and left. Somehow on the way down the stairs in the Rosby tavern she had been stripped of all her social graces. Hopefully Ser Domeric would think that it was the wine coloring her cheeks and not embarrassment.

The meal was dry pork, a bowl of celery and carrots in bone broth, and a loaf of rosemary bread. It was good to be eating something hot again. Ser Domeric removed his hands and they both tucked into their food. He looked hungrier than she felt.

While they were eating a party of Rosby men came through the door. Sansa could recognize their surcoats, the three red chevronels on ermine. She could feel Ser Domeric tense up next to her, though he did not change his position or reach for his sword. She could see his eyes flick towards the tavern’s entrance and the corners of his mouth twitch downward the slightest amount. Sansa’s heart caught in her throat._ Lord Gyles is always at court, _she thought. _He could have sent his men here to look for me. _She tensed as well, and watched them out of the side of her eye.

The dozen Rosby men sat down at one of the other trestle tables and paid them no heed. Sansa continued eating, but Ser Domeric didn’t. He held his spoon in a death grip over the dregs of the bone broth, and his sidelong glance remained fixed on the Rosby men. _It doesn’t look like they’re looking for me. It looks like they’re just resting and eating like us._

“Pate!” It was the tavern keep’s voice. “A song!”

There was a man called Pate with the Rosby men. From across the room Sansa saw that he had overlarge eyes, hip-length honey-colored hair and a too-wide mouth. He pulled off a brown cloak to reveal a black and white tunic, red breeches, and knee-high red leather boots.

“Sod off, Gormon!” called Pate. He had a musical voice, but of course he did. He was a singer. “Let me eat!”

“You’ll be eating free if you give us a song!” Gormon the tavern keep shouted at Pate. That got Pate to smiling.

“Well, keep it hot for me then!” Pate stood up, rummaged around at a bag near his feet, and went to sit on a stool near the fire. He was carrying a small woodharp.

Pate strummed a few scales and opened his mouth. “_Oooooooooooooooh, when Willum’s wife was wet, it was raining o’er the marches, and all the lovely maidens they were dancing in the hills, oh the thunder did it crackle, the rain did splash the pebbles, and Willum’s wife went out there in a lovely shift of silk…”_

Ser Domeric clutched at his spoon tightly and frowned quite openly during Pate’s song. Sansa saw him close his eyes and grit his teeth and scrunch up his nose as if he smelled something quite awful, and then he downed the entire cup of wine and rubbed his temples. She wanted to touch his arm, to see if he was all right, but then he started making that queer motion with his fingers from the day before. When the song was over, he rose, stalked towards Pate and stood in front of the fire.

“May I see your harp, friend?” Ser Domeric motioned to Pate’s harp and Sansa covered her mouth with her hands. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t believe it. Not moments ago Ser Domeric had seemed so wary of the Rosby men and now he was risking a confrontation with one of them. Should she go upstairs? Should she hide? Everyone was looking at them.

Pate’s overlarge eyes widened with obvious apprehension. He gave Ser Domeric the harp and scooted back on the stool with an audible screech. Ser Domeric plucked each and every harpstring in short order, frowned, and then he turned the instrument on its side and turned a few of the tuning pins ever so slightly, plucking the associated strings as he went. Then he slurred all the notes together and gave the harp back to Pate.

“Have a care for your craft, Pate. Give it another go.”

Pate scowled. “And who are you, ser, to tell me how to treat my harp?”

Ser Domeric shrugged. “Just another lover of music.”

Pate’s companions were sniggering, and so was the tavern keep. Sansa wanted to go upstairs. She had the distinct memory of absently wandering into the courtyard during a feast at Winterfell. Her father’s men had been drinking and laughing then, too, and then a serving maid had come over, and then they jeered at the maid, and then she left, and then there was a fight. It seemed like a bad idea to fight in the small tavern. They were closer quarters than an open courtyard, and everything was made of wood. The ceiling was low, and if Sansa stood on any of the tables, she could knock down the candles in the chandelier.

Then came the jeers. “Pate! Give it another go!” “Paaate!! Show ‘im there’s no prettier plucker than you!” “Come on, Pate!”

Pate groaned. “Let me eat, you pisspots! We’ve been riding all day!” Then he turned to Ser Domeric. “You. Why don’t you have a go? Think you’re better than Lord Rosby’s personal singer, do you?”

Ser Domeric smirked at Pate and turned to the tavern keep. “I want the deal you gave him. One song, one meal, no cost. Wine included.”

The Rosby men and the tavern keep laughed again. “And if we tell you to stop?”

Ser Domeric only grinned like a knave. “You won’t.”

Sansa could do nothing but watch. _He’s soused_, she thought, a hand over her mouth. Ser Domeric took Pate’s woodharp once again, and plucked the opening notes to _When Willum’s Wife Was Wet._

When the song was done the whole room was silent.

“He’s better than ye’re, Pate,” observed the tavern keep. “No bones about it.”

“Aye,” agreed one of the Rosby men. “Should be ‘im going to sing for Lord Gyles’ niece at her wedding.”

Pate was seething into his soup. “Just let me eat, you fools! He’s a full belly, and what, half a flagon of wine? Gormon, you’ll have another song, get me half a flagon too.”

And so Pate was fed and drank his fill. He drew his black sleeve across his face, slammed down his wine, flung himself away from the table, and snatched the harp back from Ser Domeric.

It was _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._ Ser Domeric rolled his eyes, and when Pate passed him back the harp, he smiled like a cat about to pounce. All the tension in the room was gone, as if the first words had conjured some ancient spirit of heady joy and sated bellies. Ser Domeric began to play, and every time the chorus came round, he improvised with cheeky little flourishes and trills, none two the same but still resolving to the right chords. The way he sang and plucked and looked round the room made it seem like he was telling a story, or trying at a one-man mummer’s troupe. He even sang in different voices for the bear and the maid, and it all managed to be on key. When he got to the line about the bear smelling the maiden’s honey, and then the line about licking it, Ser Domeric met Sansa’s eyes for the briefest of moments, and despite the crush of bodies and the roaring fire her spine was sent to shivering. The men in the tavern clapped in time with the music and shouted along with the chorus. Butterbumps’ rendition of the song way back in Margaery’s apartment all those weeks ago could not compare.

When he was done the room thundered with applause. Even Pate. Sansa could feel all of her muscles relax and let go of the breath she did not realize she was holding. Gormon the tavern keep handed Ser Domeric another goblet of wine, and then he gave Pate one too.

“Drink up, both of ye,” he said. “No cost. Keep singing. Please.” The Rosby men banged the tables in assent.

Pate looked stunned. All of the animosity was gone from his voice, or maybe it was only the hunger. “What’s your name, singer? You must be known. A traveling bard doesn’t eat half so well as one a lord retains. There’ll be work for you in the capital. See Lord Gyles and tell him that Pate the Pretty Plucker speaks for you. He’ll find someone to take you on.”

But Ser Domeric just shook his head and gave another winning grin. “My lady love and I just left the capital. Won’t be returning anytime soon. Off to Gulltown, we are. Work for us there aplenty.”

“You’re both singers?”

“No. A hedge knight and a seamstress. But we both can sing.” Then he turned to Sansa and beckoned for her to come over. “My lady has the sweetest voice.” She rose from her bench and meekly made her way to him. They had made a scene, Sansa thought, but it was too late to unmake it, and she was having so much fun besides. _Everyone is looking at us,_ she thought, _and everyone loves us. _The thought made her gleeful.

Ser Domeric motioned for her to sit on the remaining stool by the fire looked around the room. “What shall we sing next, my lady?”

The men in the tavern answered before she could. “Megga’s song!” “Let Me Drink Your Beauty!” “The Maids that Bloom in Spring!” “Florian and Jonquil!”

“Florian and Jonquil,” Sansa said, looking at the space between two Rosby men’s heads. _You look like a pomegranate!_ She wished the Queen of Thorns in her ear would stop.

“Florian and Jonquil it is then.” Ser Domeric turned to look at Pate. “Pate, would you like to be the bard? I shall be Florian, and my lady shall be Jonquil.”

Pate grinned and downed his wine. “Gladly, friend.” He cleared his throat. “_Six maids in a pool…”_

The ever-increasing amount of people in the tavern kept on asking for more songs. After _Six Maids in a Pool, _Ser Domeric led the whole tavern in a round of _The Lusty Lad_, and then Pate sang _The Name Day Boy. _After a bit of prodding Ser Domeric persuaded Sansa to sing _Two Hearts that Beat as One _all by herself_,_ and then he sang _Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass_, which bridged into _My Lady Wife,_ and everyone cheered. Gormon assured Ser Domeric that he would not have to pay for anything for their journey tomorrow, and gave him back his twenty coppers.

Then Pate sang Jenny’s song while Ser Domeric accompanied him on the harp and the laughing spirit left the room to usher in one of his more somber cousins. By the time Pate got to the last ‘_never wanted to leave’_, all the serving maids were crying, as were some of the goodwives that had wandered into the tavern earlier in the night.

“I think that will be all for today, Gormon,” Pate said. “We’ve to get up early on the morrow if we’re to make it in time for the wedding.” The crowd groaned.

“You said you’re going to the wedding of Lord Rosby’s niece?” Ser Domeric said softly, while he looked at Pate, and it seemed that his pale eyes were once again sharp and lucid for all that the drink had left high color on his cheeks. “In the Riverlands?”

“Aye. Pretty girl, she is. Her brother was a ward here until a year before the war. Olly. Likeable lad, very popular. Should’ve been a knight by the time he left, but can’t very well squire for sickly old Lord Gyles. We all think Lord Gyles wants him for his heir. He’d be a good lord, all right. She came to visit him once. The sister to be married. Don’t remember the lady’s name, but I suppose her father’ll remind me once I get there. She’s marrying some riverlord.”

“Good for her,” Ser Domeric said with a small smile. It was a Ser Domeric smile, not a Ser Donner smile, tight and just turned up at the corners. He studied Pate intently. “I’ll sing one last song, if it pleases you, Pate. One I adapted from Rymund the Rhymer’s work. Share it, will you? Get to know it. The people of the Riverlands will understand. And the bride’s father is sure to… appreciate it.”

“I’ll oblige you that,” said Pate. “To whom shall I attribute this riff on Rymund?”

“Ser Donner from Gulltown. Just a hedge knight.” Ser Domeric shrugged his shoulders and Pate passed him back the harp.

Ser Domeric began with slurring out a series of chromatic scales that gave Sansa the distinct impression that he was pulling back a curtain before a mummer’s show. “_At night the wolves went out to prowl…”_

_That’s the song about Robb, _Sansa thought. _No, not just Robb, all of us. And a song about us could only be a sad song. _The tones were all deep and the chords were all dark. The first verse described how the head of the pack wandered down with his pups to the lion’s den only to die trying to get them out. _Father and Arya and me. _Then the chorus came, and after a line about howling, Ser Domeric gave an actual howl. The next verse told of the new pack leader wandering from the wolf’s den to hunt the lions in the rocks. Another chorus, and more howls. He wandered through the mountains and killed half the pride, but not before he destroyed many villages in his anger. He ate little children and made maidens cry and still he could not find the lost pup. _Arya. _More howls. He was wandering away from the lion’s den and the pup in the den was kept in the cage, and she howled in sadness too, because the lions were hurting her, and Ser Domeric met her gaze. _That’s me, _Sansa thought, tears pricking at her eyes. But then the wolf’s den was left abandoned, and the pups at home drowned. _Bran and Rickon, _Sansa thought, and now the tears were openly streaming down her face. Every note rang in her bones and every word touched her heart. Somehow Ser Domeric had taken all of the sorrow she had felt about her family and committed it to music. _He wrote this for me and he knows my pain_. _He thought of me, he knows me, he loves me, I know it._

Then with one last chorus of howls the song was done. Sansa was not the only one crying. It didn’t matter to the people of Rosby that the Starks were traitors. Her family’s story was sad and they were all sad for them. They cared. Sansa wanted to hug each and every one of them.

Through her tears Sansa could see Pate looking at Ser Domeric with open reverence. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a singer, Donner? You could come with us and a riverlord could take you on. Your lady too, she’s good enough. Steadier pay, steadier work than for a hedge knight.”

“I’m sure,” said Ser Domeric. “I promised my wife Gulltown, so to Gulltown we will go.” Then he gave Pate back the harp and rose, slinging an arm around Sansa’s waist. She was still sniffling a bit. His song was so beautiful. She clung to his arm. _Thank you, _she wanted to say, but she hoped he could feel the words through her hand. _Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you._

“If it pleases you,” Pate sighed. Then he clasped Ser Domeric’s free arm. “’Twas good to meet you, Ser Donner from Gulltown. And you, my lady.”

“And you, Pate. Safe travels.” Sansa nodded her head at Pate too.

“Aye. Good night and travel well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domeric Bolton. Knight. Nobleman. Poet. Rockstar?
> 
> Traveling singers and troubadors were essentially the medieval versions of rockstars, right? 
> 
> When writing this chapter, I thought of this passage from AFFC, Sansa I :
> 
> "Once, when she was just a little girl, a wandering singer had stayed with them at Winterfell for half a year. An old man he was, with white hair and windburnt cheeks, but he sang of knights and quests and ladies fair, and Sansa had cried bitter tears when he left them, and begged her father not to let him go. “The man has played us every song he knows thrice over,” Lord Eddard told her gently. “I cannot keep him here against his will. You need not weep, though. I promise you, other singers will come.”
> 
> They hadn’t, though, not for a year or more. Sansa had prayed to the Seven in their sept and old gods of the heart tree, asking them to bring the old man back, or better still to send another singer, young and handsome. But the gods never answered, and the halls of Winterfell stayed silent."
> 
> NED... The Dreadfort is right next door. 
> 
> In this chapter Sansa gets to be a boyband groupie. She doesn't scream, but she gets a front row seat when the Beatles play. Or the Backstreet Boys. Or Justin Bieber. And then he calls her on stage and sings a duet with her!!! And then he sings a song that is about her and that hits her right in the feels... it's every boyband groupie's dream.
> 
> That's it. That's the thesis of this chapter. Sansa deserves it. I love her.


	19. Sansa VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Domeric reach Duskendale.

True to his word, Ser Domeric bought Sansa a grey palfrey and a saddle and more rope the morning they left Rosby. With the saddlebags split between two horses they could go faster, at a brisk trot.

“We should get to Duskendale in two days, my princess,” he’d told her when they were clear of the village. “This horse looks a bit better than I had expected, we can push her a bit faster than I had thought to.”

“Sansa,” she broke in. “I insist you call me Sansa, ser.”

“If you insist, my - ” he stopped himself. “Sansa. Then I would ask you to call me Domeric. Or Dom, that’s what my family calls me. Not my father, the rest of my family. And my friends.” She couldn’t see his face but she hoped he was smiling. “I’ll have a hard time with that. You are my princess, Sansa.”

“Domeric,” she said, “I shall call you that.” _Domeric._ Sansa liked the way his name felt, how her tongue grazed the roof of her mouth and her lips parted and closed and parted again when she spoke it. She ignored the last part. She could be his princess if he wanted. She was just glad the formality was gone.

It was good to be on the road, under the shining sun and clear sky, breathing in the clean coastal air again. Being outside and riding his horse seemed to greatly improve Domeric’s mood from the night before.

It had all started out so well when they left the Rosby tavern’s common room and went up the stairs. Domeric had followed her up, just two paces behind, and as they ascended the air around her seemed to crackle. With every step her heart seemed to double its pace, and when they reached the door she waited for a few moments for him to open it for her before realizing that she had kept it in her skirts the whole time. Embarrassed, she had fumbled with the key, and it took her a few tries to get it into the lock and turn it correctly. Then she turned the knob and Domeric held it open for her while she went inside, and then he barred the door behind him.

Sansa had gone to the Myrish glass to free her hair. _It is not supposed to hurt_._ Shae would do this right._ She removed the pearled net and the pins, one by one, and when the last pin came out, she caught Domeric’s eyes in her reflection. Sansa smiled, and he smiled too. As she untied the thong around the end of her plait and unwound the sections from each other, her hands shook, and it felt like she had ten thumbs. She ran her fingers over her scalp and through her hair, and trying her best to only break his gaze for the shortest moment, and turned around to face him. Her chest and tummy were full to bursting with bubbles and bats, rising and popping and fluttering against her ribs in a pitter-patter that sounded in her ears and set her veins to tremors.

She was done with her hair, so she rose and went to him. “Thank you, ser,” she said. “For the song... It was so lovely. You played so well.” She wanted to tell him how much his song had moved her, how powerful his voice was, but doubtless he had already heard all of those things. She wanted to speak of Bran and Rickon and Arya how much it meant to her that there was someone who knew just how much she grieved for them, but the words would not come, they all died on her tongue. She felt so graceless. All she could say was ‘lovely’ and ‘well’. So she looked up at him and hoped he could see it all on her face.

“It was my pleasure, princess,” he said, and he was speaking softly again, like Domeric Bolton and not like the cheeky and confident Donner the hedge knight. His smile was tiny, just tugging up at the corners of his mouth, and his lips were parted the smallest amount. His pale eyes twinkled like glassy baubles, and overall his expression was very strange. _He will kiss me now_, she thought. _I know he will._ She did not think it possible but heart sped up even more, and the bubbles in her chest started floating and popping but more kept forming to take their place.

It wasn’t ladylike at all, but Sansa took another step closer to him, because she wanted to get closer, and she lay a hand on his arm, because she wanted to touch him. Domeric was tall, but Sansa was tall too. The top of her head was at the level of his eyes, and he wouldn’t need to bend down at all. She only had to tip her face up and stand on her toes a bit and they could be kissing. So she leaned forward off her heels, smiled up at him, and lowered her eyelids.

But he didn’t move to kiss her. Instead she felt a finger under her chin and a breath on her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, she saw that Domeric wasn’t smiling anymore, but he wasn’t frowning, either. His eyes shone like moonstones, and they shifted from her eyes to somewhere by her ear, in and out of focus, and then he held her gaze. His mouth turned downward, and a furrow appeared in his brow. Then he picked a section of hair near the front, close to her face, and he wound it through two fingers and twirled it around his palm. Sansa’s hair was long, so even when he had wound it around several times, there was still slack, and it did not hurt.

“Have a care for your honor, my lady,” Domeric said, running his knuckles against her cheekbone. “Your honor, and mine.” His touch left a trail of gooseprickles on her skin. Sansa felt her hair bounce against her face and fall away from his hand, and then the air moved. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the stiff strain in his voice was obvious, just like the melancholy in his pale face. “Have a care.” Then he drew her into his arms and hugged her tightly, buried his nose in her hair and gave an audible sigh. His chest was hard and warm, and Sansa could feel his heart beating quickly too. After a time that felt too short, he unwound himself from her and spun her around. As she turned, her hip brushed the pommel of his sword and he gently pushed her away from him.

“We’ll have an early day tomorrow, princess,” he said. “You should rest now. I will look away so you may prepare for sleep.”

Too confused to be disappointed, Sansa nodded meekly. She went to stand between the bed and the shuttered window and removed her boots and her gown. The shift was still clean; she could sleep in that. Then she placed her boots at the foot of the bed – Domeric had placed his bedroll on the floor – and hung her gown in the wardrobe and crawled under the furs until only her eyes and nose were out.

“Good night, ser,” she said.

“Good night, princess,” he replied. Then he drew the grate around the hearth so the light in the room was nearly gone.

But Sansa did not sleep. She couldn’t. Not with her heart still pounding loudly in her ears like a drum in the deep. _What did I do wrong?_ She wanted to ask, but Domeric didn’t sound like he wanted to be talking anymore. So she feigned sleep as best she could and watched through half-closed eyes. A stripe of moonlight eked its way across the floor like milk spilled on stone, and in it she could see Domeric standing by the fire, eyes cast low. He went to sit in one of the chairs by the window and put his head in his hands for a moment, muttering something under his breath. Then he rose, rid himself of his swordbelt and his boots and tunic and breeches and made for the bath.

_This is wrong, _Sansa thought. _I should not be watching now. _She screwed her eyes shut and pulled the furs over her head, but she could not help but hear.

He entered the water with a perfunctory plunk. Then he cursed at the cold and she could hear him scrubbing himself down for a while. He cursed again. Then there was another plunk of him dunking under, and then a splash when he rose.

“Others take me,” he said. Then she heard what must have been him toweling off, and then the pads of footsteps, and the shuffle of him entering the bedroll, and then silence.

She shouldn’t have listened. She still had no answers. So Sansa slept.

***

The difference in Domeric’s bearing as they trotted towards Duskendale was like summer and winter. There was no sign of sadness in him when he was play-acting Ser Donner Stone when they broke their fast, when he bought her palfrey, or all along the road.

It was another fine autumn day. They passed golden fields of wheat and corn and millet and barley, and beds of carrots and potatoes and all sorts of crops. They passed pastures and pens filled with livestock, copses of trees topped with brittle browns and blushing reds and happy yellows and flaming oranges, all waiting for the winter winds to strip them bare. Then the fields turned to limestone hills, and that was how they knew they were getting close. Ser Domeric kept looking over his shoulder, as if he expected Lannister soldiers to come crashing down the Rosby road to seize them both, but they never saw a single red cloak. Every few minutes they passed fellow travelers along the road, farmers with their carts or journeymen looking for work, but mostly they were left alone. Sansa let Domeric do the talking if talk was demanded.

“To find news,” he said, but there was little and less to be had.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask him, _What did I do wrong_ the foremost among them. But it was never the right time. It never seemed to fit in any of the conversations they had while riding or while eating lunch or even when they had made camp for the evening. They were all too happy. Sansa didn’t want to ruin Domeric’s good humor by raising a subject that would make him upset. _Later, _she kept saying to herself. _Later. Don’t spoil this. _

They reached Duskendale by midmorning on the next day, or rather, they reached the Dun Fort. The Dun Fort was on the southern edge of the harbor’s inner point, the curtain walls and drum towers and inner keeps obscuring the port town beyond.

“That’s a weirwood,” Sansa said. She could see the five-fingered red leaves just poking out from behind the pale, shimmery walls.

“Aye, the Dun Fort is ancient. It was the seat of the Kings of Duskendale from the days of the Hundred Kingdoms. The Darklyns. They were of First Men stock, and the old gods ruled here before the Andals came. The weirwood here is probably one of the oldest south of Harrenhal. Before King’s Landing was built, Duskendale was the most important port between Maidenpool and Storm’s End, and much blood was spilled over its control. The Darklyns were sworn to the Ironborn, the river kings, the storm kings, and the kings in the Narrow Sea, all at different times.”

Sansa liked that about Domeric. He seemed to know _everything _that there was to know about everything. At Winterfell she had been the best at histories and letters, well, after Jon, but around Domeric she felt like she hadn’t known anything at all. He knew not just what happened, but always had a story, a _why_, for every event in the past that he mentioned. He knew more stories about King’s Landing and the Red Keep than she had, and she had lived there for over a year.

They rode around the Dun Fort and soon came to one of Duskendale’s gates. A guard stopped them on their way in, and waved them through once Domeric explained their story.

“We’ll stop at the Seven Swords in town. That’s the big inn on the main square. We’ll get a room there, for as many nights as we need before the next ship to Gulltown comes.” Then Domeric furrowed his brow. “You should stay in the inn this afternoon. I have to ride to the battlefield and retrieve something I left there.” Then he turned to face her. “We could get you something to work on for a few hours. Some parchment or a moleskine and a quill, or some fabric and thread. Would you like that?”

Sansa looked up at him on his tall red courser. She wouldn’t like that. She wanted to go wherever he was going. “I… I would feel safer at your side, ser,” she said.

But he shook his head. “You would be far safer _inside_, my lady. There may be looters and thieves about, to take what they can off the fallen. And I would not have you see where your father’s men lay dead.”

They rode on through the cobblestone streets of the town and Sansa mulled on his words. She remembered Domeric’s sad song about Robb’s war, how he had said that what the army had done in the Riverlands was _terrible_, how Robb had led the Northmen south for nothing, and was silent all the way up to their suite in the Seven Swords. _They were fighting for us,_ she thought. _And now they are dead. _She bit her lip. _I have seen dead men._ _I am here now. I will remember them._

“Domeric?” she said, while they were unpacking their things. When she said his name all the features of his face brightened.

“My lady?”

“I would see it. The battlefield. I would see the men who died for Robb and send them off to the gods. I would pray for their souls.”

His smile withered away. Domeric studied her, his face inscrutable. “My princess, it will be dangerous.” His tone was even. His voice was soft.

She did not flinch away from his gaze. _He looks like Roose Bolton, _she realized_. _She dismissed the thought. “I have been in danger. I will be safe with you.”

Then his jaw twitched, and he let out a breath. “As my lady commands.”

Domeric’s shoulders tensed as he led their horses through the square in front of the inn. He breathed in with a sharp noise and stopped abruptly in front of a peddler hawking armor picked off the dead from the battle, who had many pieces to sell. _Thieves and looters, _Sansa thought. _Perhaps not so many anymore. _

“That sword. And the pine tree rondels. I will buy them.”

“You again? One dragon.” Domeric narrowed his eyes at the peddler and made the exchange.

Sansa was silent again until they existed the town and they mounted up. “Did the peddler know you?”

“Aye. I sold Rhaegar’s mail to him.”

“Why did you buy the sword and rondels?”

Domeric did not turn to look at her. “They belonged to Ser Helman. I knew them on sight. They belong to Eddara Tallhart now. Or her mother. I will bring them home.” His voice was very tight. “I had hoped he had lived but the rumors of his death have proven true.”

Sansa rode up next to him and laid a hand on his arm. “We will remember him.” Sansa had known Helman Tallhart. He was always a gracious host whenever the Starks visited Torrhen’s Square.

“Aye,” he said. There was no mistaking it. He was sad.

They rode by the sea north of the town. On the beach there was a large cairn of rocks, more than three times the size of the sept at Winterfell. In front of the cairn there was a driftwood plank staked into the gravel. Carved in rough lettering were the words HERE LIE THE WOLVES.

“This is where we will pray,” she said. Domeric helped her dismount, and when she knelt, he followed. Sansa touched the rocks of the cairn.

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” she said. “You came away from your homes to fight for the name of Stark, and you died for it. On behalf of my house I thank you for your valor. Of you all I only knew Ser Helman Tallhart, Master of Torrhen’s Square, a kind man, and brave, but none of your deaths shall be forgotten. May the gods care for your souls as we all smile on your memories. House Stark will remember.”

“The North remembers,” Domeric added softly. “I am sorry,” he said to the cairn, bowing his head. After that they knelt in silence for a few more moments, and when Sansa stood, Domeric helped her onto her horse. He wore a look of plain dismay on his face, the corners of his mouth turned sharply down, deep furrows on his brow. He was thinking of the dead he had left again, she knew. It wouldn’t do well to disturb him.

He led the way to wherever he was going, and neither said a word for near on an hour.

They were riding up a slope, through what looked like it had once been farmland. Now the ground underfoot was a muddy mess and it did not seem fit for growing anything. Every so often they passed burned-out hovels, or mills that had been torn apart. When the wind came off the hills Sansa could smell the ghosts of smoke. _They must have burned it,_ Sansa thought. She remembered how bountiful the lands south of Duskendale had looked. _It will be a long time before these fields return to how they were. They are ruined. _How awful.

“They deserved better,” Domeric said abruptly, as they neared a burned-out hovel that looked much the same as the rest. “Ser Helman and the rest. They shouldn’t have been sent to fight here. And they should be buried at home. In a lichyard by a godswood, or in a crypt where weirwood roots can reach them. A marker with each of their names. Not thrown together under a pile of rocks on some southron beach.” His voice sounded bitter.

He stopped and dismounted and tied his red courser to a tree with a gash in its bark, and took a spade out of a saddlebag. Then he helped Sansa off her palfrey and tied it to the tree too. His eyes were far away. Even with his hands around her waist it did not feel like he was totally present. Finally, he went into the hovel and shoved a broken bed against one of the crumbling walls and started to dig.

As the piles of loose dirt came up he spoke again. “My uncles. Lord Willam and Ser Mark. They died in the south, after the last war. In Dorne. They went with your father to find the Lady Lyanna and bring her back. Then they died, just like her. They were left in cairns like that. In Dorne. Your father told my aunt Barbrey. That’s where they are. Under cairns in southern sand. We always wanted their bones back.” More piles of dirt came up to reveal something black in the hole, and the bitterness in Domeric’s voice only deepened.

“But we can’t bring them back. Not any of them. I don’t know which one Ser Helman is. Lady Tallhart and Lady Eddara will only ever have his sword and those two rondels. Just like my aunt only ever got Lord Willam’s horse. And we got nothing back of Ser Mark.”

Sansa wondered if there was anything she could say and laid a hand on his shoulder. “They died heroes’ deaths, ser,” she said, “and they will receive heroes’ honors.” She did not know if she was speaking of his uncles or Ser Helman. She did not know what honors those would be. She’d speak to Mother and Robb and they’d come up with something. But she had to say something, for him.

Domeric looked back at her, and his face was tight with something that looked like gratitude or shame. “Heroes,” he said, his tone wistful. Then his eyes softened and once again he looked sad. “Thank you, princess. Sansa.”

He was done digging now. Domeric began to take the black things out of the hole, and it was clear that they were a kit of armor. There was also a bundle of fine clothing in Bolton colors. He set aside the clothing, and one by one, he deliberately laid the pieces of armor on the bed in the shape of a man, fitting them together so as to make sure all the parts were there. The kit looked to be his size. It was clear it was his.

He needed something to distract him, so Sansa changed the subject. “Your armor is quite striking, ser. You must appear so fearsome when you face your foes. And the work is very impressive.”

Nothing she had said had been a lie. Domeric’s armor was black plate from tip to toe, engraved with blood red enamel. Having been buried, it was dusty now, but she knew that when he cleaned it properly it would all shine. The sabatons and greaves and gauntlets and vambraces bore carvings made to resemble the bones of the feet and fingers and shins and forearms, and the couters and rerebraces and poleyns and cuisses were likewise carved to look like skinless muscle. The pauldrons and the tassets were skinless muscle too, and the rondels were all embellished with little flayed men or grinning skulls. The gorget was plain, but the helm sported a tail of blood red horsehair, and on the shoulders were two horses’ heads with flashing red rubies for eyes. They were both chomping at the bit, their teeth clamping down on his heavy pink greatcloak which lay unfurled beneath it all. But by far the most beautiful piece was his black breastplate, undeniably a work of art. Here the engravings depicted skin being peeled away from the chest to reveal a broken cage of ribs, at whose center was a heart._ It’s bleeding,_ Sansa realized. _It’s bleeding rubies. _She wanted to giggle but she stayed silent.

_He is the flayed man. The one being tortured. _It was something only a Bolton would wear. _All his enemies would fear him,_ Sansa thought. _They would quake just to look at it. _She smiled. _No one would ever hurt a lady whose lord looked like that. No one would ever hurt Lady Bolton._

Domeric straightened at her words. “I designed it myself, my lady,” he said. _Did he? How morbid._ _How wonderful! _She could see his chest puffing up a bit. That was wonderful too. “I am glad you think well of it.”

“It is a beautiful kit, ser. You have a talent.”

“The smith had a talent. I just told him what I wanted.”

Domeric was much more affable on the ride back to town. There saw hardly anyone on the trail, so they could speak freely, speak as themselves. She asked him a few more questions about his armor, because many men liked talking about their armor, and he was no different. He was very enthusiastic about the subject, she found.

Lord Bolton had commissioned it from a master smith in White Harbor when Domeric had sent a raven home with the news that he’d been knighted and would be returning to the Dreadfort soon. He hadn’t brought the whole thing with him; there were a few extra pieces made special for the joust which had been left at Harrenhal. When the war had broken out, he’d been in the Vale, and he’d been planning to attend a tourney at Wickenden to celebrate the wedding of Lord Waxley’s only daughter, but he’d needed to go to Moat Cailin instead.

“Have you ever ridden in a tourney, ser?”

“Only squire’s tourneys. Never as a knight.”

“But you’d been a knight for two years, before the war. You could have ridden then.”

“Aye, but I had duties at the Dreadfort. The only tourneys in the North are at White Harbor, and Lord Manderly’s next major nameday isn’t for years and years. Might be he’ll host one when Lady Wynafryd is wed. If he can afford it after the war.”

“You could have ridden at the Hand’s Tourney for my father.”

“I thought about it.”

“Why didn’t you come?”

They were only a few minutes away from the town walls now. Domeric stopped his horse.

“Because if I had won there would have been a scandal.”

“A scandal?”

“Aye. The worst kind. Can’t very well crown another man’s betrothed, much less the Crown Prince’s.” He was smirking at her.

Sansa’s eyes widened at that, and there were bubbles in her heart again. _That was me! He’s loved me since before the Hand’s tourney! For more than a year…_

She opened her mouth wide to say something but he had started off on the trail back to Duskendale again. When she sped after him, she could hear him chuckling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I wanted to display Sansa's emotional intelligence, deepen her connection to the North, further acquaint Sansa with the effects of war, and showcase some GRRM-esque clothing porn (Dom's war bling). 
> 
> The Boltons have some really cool war bling. It's kind of the team "look". 
> 
> Roose (Reek II ADWD): Back where the press was thickest at the center of the column rode a man armored in dark grey plate over a quilted tunic of blood-red leather. His rondels were wrought in the shape of human heads, with open mouths that shrieked in agony. From his shoulders streamed a pink woolen cloak embroidered with droplets of blood. Long streamers of red silk fluttered from the top of his closed helm.   
https://www.deviantart.com/fernoll/art/Roose-Bolton-732464851
> 
> Ramsay (Theon VI ACOK): At their head was a knight in dark armor. His rounded helm gleamed a sullen red, and a pale pink cloak streamed from his shoulders...The torchlight glittered off the chipped enamel of his visor. His helm and gorget were wrought in the shape of a man’s face and shoulders, skinless and bloody,  
mouth open in a silent howl of anguish.   
https://www.deviantart.com/aldok/art/Ramsay-in-Winterfell-554680757
> 
> On the back end I have reached 100K words. I am shooting for 350-450K total. Thank you to everyone who has been reading, leaving kudos, and commenting.


	20. Sansa VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds something more in common with Domeric beyond songs and music. Domeric speaks more frankly about the political situation.

The sun was low when they got back to the inn. While Sansa bathed, she watched it sink out of the purple sky into the grey-green sea, a great orange disc disappearing under the horizon. They had one of the best rooms in the Seven Swords, on the topmost floor and with a splendid view of Blackwater Bay.

“My lady?” Sansa could see Domeric’s silhouette behind the screen separating the tub from the rest of the room. She hadn’t heard him come upstairs. He had been in the common room listening for news.

“Ser?”

He was silent for a moment and then spoke slowly. “There is a beach under the cliffs where the tides don’t reach all the way. Between the harbor and the Dun Fort. The lights from the town and the castle and the lighthouse reflect off the water and keep it bright enough to see. We could eat there, instead of the common room. Or up here. Whatever you would like, my lady.”

Eating outside meant that they wouldn’t have to play-act as a sellsword and a seamstress anymore. She wouldn’t have to wear the hairnet, she could just be Sansa, and Domeric didn’t have to put on any funny airs. _And maybe he will give me a kiss… _

“I would like that, ser. Thank you.”

Even behind the screen could see him brighten at her response. “Excellent,” he said. “We’ll go after I’ve had my bath.”

The beach between the town and the Dun Fort was covered in fine sand, mottled black and white. It was much nicer than the beach north of the town where the Stark army had been laid to rest. To the east was the sea, a rippled black mirror that shone jade green under the glow of the lighthouse. To the south, on the limestone cliffs above the sea, sat the Dun Fort, watching the town and the port and the harbor from above. The Dun Fort’s outer curtain walls stretched around far, far behind them, splitting off to the west to wrap around Duskendale and shield city and castle alike. As Domeric dismounted and helped her off his horse, Sansa felt a twinge if sadness that the short, slow ride was over. She’d ridden behind him, the satchel with their food and wineskin strapped to her back, her arms winding around him to clasp together at his front. Sansa had relished the feeling of pressing so tightly against him, for he hadn’t worn any armor, and she had felt the hard muscles of his sides and back through his tunic.

The only other time she’d ever touched a man so closely was when the Hound had saved her during the bread riot, but it hadn’t been half so pleasant. Here on the beach at Duskendale there weren’t any angry, shouting smallfolk, no flying rotten fruits or grabbing hands. It was just Sansa and Domeric, and it was quiet. It was safe.

Domeric dismounted and helped her off his horse. _Rhaegar_, she thought giddlily. _How funny. We’re dragonriders. _She reveled in the feeling of his hands on her waist and her hands on his shoulders. For those brief moments they were closer than if they were dancing. Dancing was better on the whole, though. Dancing lasted longer. Oh, how wonderful it would be, to dance with him! Perhaps they would, once they got to Runestone.

He took the satchel from her and spread the saddle blanket on the ground, far up from the reach of the sea, with cliffs and rocks and caves at their back. A short and skinny tree was growing in the sand, and that was where he tied his horse. Their red dragon. Rhaegar. He bade her sit, and so she sat, and he did too.

Domeric opened the satchel and produced a wineskin and bundles of food wrapped in linen napkins. He unwrapped the bundles, shook out the napkins, and handed one to her. She spread it over her lap as he began to unpack the food.

“They’re pies,” he said. “Beef and fish and apple and berry. I – I know you like lemon but they didn’t have any – ”

“They’re perfect,” Sansa said. “Thank you, ser.”

He cut the meat pie and fish pie in half with his knife, and handed her one of each. _His hands are beautiful, _she thought. _His fingers are so long. Graceful. _In the moonlight they were white, snow white, like ice spiders. Sansa broke off a piece of the beef pie and put the rest in her lap. They ate in silence, staring at the moon on the sea.

“Have you ever been to the sea before?” he said, after a while. “On the waves, or on a ship?”

Sansa shook her head. “No,” she said. “I have been to White Harbor, but never on a ship on the waves. I have seen Blackwater Bay. The Tyrells took me sailing on a river barge on Blackwater Rush, and I went on a riverboat with Robb and Uncle Edmure when I was at Riverrun a few years ago.” 

“Riverrun,” he repeated. “Sansa?” He was staring at her. “Will you be happy? When we reach your family?”

His question came when she was still chewing. He looked embarrassed at this, but she nodded in acknowledgement. The chewing gave her time to think. Was she happy? She hadn’t really thought about her family since he sang their song at Rosby, except for the brief moments they’d spent praying by the cairn on the beach.

“I will be glad to see my mother again,” she said slowly after swallowing, “but I do not know how I am going to speak to Robb. It seems as if he will be so different now. As if I will be meeting a stranger. Or as if I had lost all three of my brothers at Winterfell instead of just two, and my sister. As if someone else will stand there in my brother’s body. My king, but not my brother. I fear I will not know him.”

Sansa’s throat was dry. She turned to look for a flask of water, a wineskin, but she couldn’t find one. As if he knew her thoughts Domeric produced his wineskin from his hip and handed to her. Their fingers brushed on the neck. Sansa took a sip.

“Robb… he was my hero. When we played monsters and maidens with Arya and Jon, Robb would always be my champion. Arya would be Jon’s squire. When Old Nan would tell us frightening stories, it was Robb who would hold me if I would start to cry. Robb was always there. I don’t remember a time without him. I don’t remember a time without Arya either, but I would always quarrel with Arya. I rarely quarreled with Robb. Robb I knew best. He was there the longest. Bran and Rickon, I love them, but I remember when they were babies, when they were born. I got to know Bran some, but we were always doing different things when he became old enough to truly talk, and Rickon… he never got the chance to get that far.” When she finished, she didn’t feel like speaking anymore.

Domeric was still staring at her. “I lost young brothers too, you know,” he said after a few long moments. She hadn’t known. She shook her head. She’d only ever heard that Lord Bolton had one trueborn son. “They were all babies, when they died. I never got to know them, either. Not even the last. Roger. He died during the Greyjoy Rebellion. My mother died then too. A fever took them both.” He looked at the moon.

“My mother… her name was Beth. Bethany Ryswell Bolton. She named Roger after her brother. Roger Ryswell. My uncle. He had a daughter a few moons before. Another Bethany Ryswell. Another Beth. Roger Bolton and Beth Ryswell. Because Beth Bolton and Roger Ryswell loved each other very much. They were each other’s favorite siblings. Mother told me so. Uncle Roger too. Now… there’s just Roger Ryswell and little Beth, and Beth Bolton and little Roger are both gone.

“I know well my cousin Beth. She’s around your age. But my brother Roger, I never… I never got to know him. He was talking, walking when he died. Always chasing after me through the halls of the Dreadfort. He wanted to play with me. I never wanted to play with him. He could talk, but he didn’t have anything to talk about. He could walk, but he couldn’t run fast enough for me. Or ride a pony. All I ever wanted to do was ride my pony.” Domeric took a long breath in and let a long breath out.

“If I had known – if I had known what was going to happen – I would have just played with him. I wish…” His voice, as always quiet, had trailed off into silence. Sansa took his hand in both of hers and looked into his eyes. They shone brighter and paler than the moon. The muscles in his jaw were twitching.

“You wish that you had spent more time with him,” she said. “You wish you could have just been there for him like he wanted you to. That you could have accepted him as he was. That you had been a better brother.” His eyes widened and he nodded. “I wish… I wish I had been a better sister. That I had held Rickon more, and told him that I loved him every chance that I could. I wish that I had spent more time with Bran, and that I hadn’t fought with Arya. I wish I had realized how important they were to me.” Sansa released his hands and ate the last piece of berry pie to swallow the pain in her throat and quell the quaking in her voice.

There was more silence after that.

“Ser,” she said, “you did not finish your pie.”

“I have not,” he said, picking up the last bite. “Would you like it? Better for you than for the birds.” Sansa nodded. “Here, then.”

Domeric picked up the last piece of berry pie and Sansa put out the palm of her hand. But his hand bypassed hers, and paused about the height of her shoulder. Their eyes locked, then, and he pressed his mouth into a line, and his gaze darted to her mouth for a moment. A crease appeared between his brows as if in question.

Sansa’s eyes widened. She smiled at him and then opened her mouth, sticking her tongue out just a little.

His lips quirked upward and his hand began to move again. _Too slow, _Sansa thought, _he’s moving too slow_. Her heart began to beat like the wings of a bat. Eventually his fingers met her mouth. They brushed her bottom lip and against her tongue before releasing the piece of pie and pulling away. As she swallowed the flaky crust she watched him suck the berry juices off his fingers.

_His mouth is very pretty, _she thought, _and when he opens it, his pretty voice sings pretty songs._

Domeric tilted his head and stretched his neck. The joints between his bones cracked and he sighed. Then he extended his legs forward, one after the other, pointed and rolled both ankles, one after the other. Then he turned his face towards her once more.

“Did you enjoy your supper, my lady?” Sansa nodded wordlessly.

“Shall we be leaving, then?” She shook her head. _Not yet…_

“There is business you have here?” She only stared at him, pursing her lips. “My lady awaits some sign from the Moonmaid or the Stallion?” The stars were very pretty, but Sansa did not search for their signs tonight. She shook her head once more.

“My lady would like a kiss.” He had been teasing her again. Her face must have been so red…

“Am I right?” Sansa nodded like a little lamb.

Domeric took her hand and then brought it to his lips, kissing her just below the knuckle of her middle finger. Then he met her eyes.

“My lady was expecting something else.” Another nod. Her voice had left her. Maybe it had flown away with the seabirds, or she had swallowed it with the pie…

He shifted closer to her on the blanket and braced his hand on the ground. Then his other hand tipped up her chin and his face came very close, so close she could feel his warm breath on her skin. The bat in her heart was very loud in flight. Domeric held her gaze for another moment and then closed his eyes, brow furrowing. When they opened, he exhaled in a cool puff, released her chin, and leaned upward to kiss her forehead. Then he touched the tips of their noses together and pulled back.

“That was not what my lady wanted either.”

No, it wasn’t_. _Sansa bit her lip in disappointment. _Again, _she thought, staring at the sand. _Did I do something wrong again? _

Domeric sighed again, but then he slung his arm around her shoulder and drew her next to him. Sansa was very confused. With his other hand he tipped up her chin once more. “I could not kiss my lady love,” he said, “elsewise I would not bring her back. I would take her away with me, but my lady love wants to see her mother.” He closed his eyes again. “And ‘twould be dishonorable to kiss the bride of another man.”

Sansa blinked. _What?_ She found her voice again. “Robb has… promised me?” She was so confused. “To whom?”

“None yet. But he will. And not to me.”

Sansa felt a snake of dread slither around her throat. It started to squeeze. “You are promised then.” _No. No. No. It is not supposed to be this way._

“No.”

“Then… why… Robb…” _I am a Stark and I am brave. _“You saved me. Robb _must_ give me to you. It’s… how it works… You’re a hero… who saved a princess…”

“Not a hero,” he said. “And I haven’t saved you yet. We’re not at Runestone yet.”

“But once we get there – Robb _must_ – ”

“Kings do what they will,” he said, gently again. “And he will not give you to me.”

Oh, how she felt so _naked_. Worse than naked! She felt like she didn’t have any skin at all, like he had peeled it all away to reveal the workings of her flesh, her wildly beating heart. There was no point in keeping any secrets from him now.

“But – but – ” Sansa bit her tongue and steeled herself. “You’re a hero. My hero. It’s what I want. I want to be your reward. Because you were the one who took me away when no one else did.” She inhaled sharply. “You called me your lady love. Do you not love me? I thought – I thought – you came – for my hand…”

Domeric clenched his jaw, and opened his mouth, and closed it again. Then he spoke and tightened his arm around her shoulders. “I would like that, my lady, my love, I swear it,” he said. “but it cannot be. I dare not ask.”

“You dare not even ask? Not even just to try?”

“I dare not, for I would be wroth enough to draw blood when His Grace denies me, and he would. And it would not end well.” He rubbed his temple. “What is my name, Sansa Stark?”

“Domeric Bolton.”

“And you know your histories? Of my family and yours?”

Of course she did. She wasn’t stupid.

“The Boltons bent the knee to the Starks during the Andal invasion. The last Red King was Rogar the Huntsman, who swore himself to Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. The King of Winter. Ever since Karlon Stark defeated Donner Bolton a thousand years ago, the Dreadfort has been steadfastly loyal to Winterfell and never rebelled again.” _I am not stupid. I am not stupid. I am not stupid, _she reminded herself, over and over and over, but she wasn’t sure she believed it.

Domeric gave her a wan smile and touched her hand. “Aye, my lady. Your maester taught you well. But that is not what I meant. The Boltons have never been steadfastly loyal. Less than a hundred years ago, during Dagon Greyjoy’s Rebellion, my thrice-great grandfather Bartimus was planning to take Winterfell. I know, I read his journal, my father showed it to me one day. Bartimus Bolton would have succeeded if Lonnel Snow and his crannogmen had not swept in to defeat the Ironmen and the ruling Lady Lorra Stark from the succession crisis threatening her son, Lord Donnor Stark. Lady Lorra was the mother to Lord William, Lord Rickard’s grandfather. But you know that.”

Sansa did know. She’d seen William and Donnor and his father Beron and even Jonnel in the crypts, and Maester Luwin had gone over this story. “Because of Lonnel Snow, Bartimus never got the chance to act on his plans.” Domeric laced his fingers through hers, and they were very warm.

Oh, he was being so _confusing! _He was holding her so gently, but his words were ruining everything. She could have dissolved into his touch like sugar in tea if not for the cold shock of the tales he told. He was pulling her closer and pushing her away, all at the same time, and she did not like it.

“So you see, my lady, we Boltons have bent the knee, but we have never been loyal. And for that reason we are not trusted. You might have thought that when the Boltons were finally subdued that the King in the North would have taken a bride, to bind the two together, like they did with the daughters of the Barrow Kings, the Warg Kings, the Marsh Kings? But it did not happen, and we are not trusted like the Reeds and the Dustins. Why? I do not know. Perhaps my blood is tainted, or cursed.”

His hands were so gentle, but his words were so harsh. Not just harsh, _stupid! _What did that matter? That was all hundreds, thousands of years ago. She didn’t care about a thousand years ago, of the Red Kings of old. She cared about now. She cared about him.

“My father… Nobody trusts my father. Not truly. They need him for his cunning and his skills, but nobody wants him around. He unsettles people, and I unsettle people because I am his son. They suspect he keeps the old ways, the Bolton ways, and they think it of me too, unless they come to know me better.”

“I do not care,” Sansa protested. “You are not your father. You're not the rest of your family either. There’s nothing wrong with you, or your blood. I know you have no part in whatever they did… They can’t hold that against you. I trust you. You saved me. You are good… You are different. Kind and brave. A true knight. And you sing, and you play music, and you care about everyone, and you are… you…”

_Even if you were like the rest of them, I would not care. _

“Even if your brother saw all that, or your mother did, my lady, it would make no difference. They could not give your hand to me. Not when they need it to make a peace.” He inhaled shakily. “Your brother cannot win this war. He must bend the knee, for the good of the North. The Riverlands. His kingdom. There must be a peace with the Lannisters and the Crown if any of us are to survive the winter.”

Domeric tightened his hug around her, and squeezed the fingers twined through hers. “I do not like it either. They will send you to Highgarden and Willas Tyrell, or perhaps to Lancel Lannister at the Rock. I do not want that.”

“Ser Lancel is injured,” Sansa said. “He may not yet live.” She hadn’t wanted him to die, but she didn’t want to _marry him…_

“Highgarden then.” Domeric inhaled again. “Think of it this way, princess. We could be like… like Queen Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight. I wouldn’t have to marry, I could be your shield instead, or go to the Wall, Walda’s son could have the Dreadfort – ”

_No, _Sansa thought. _No, no, no. He cannot say this. I will not believe it. I will not give up._

“But we’re going to the Vale… They will help. Aunt Lysa will help. All of her lords will help. I’ll make them see. We will. We’ll help Robb win. He wouldn’t need to surrender, and then he… he couldn’t deny you… us.”

“Sansa,” he started gently. “My love. How do you think the Vale would be raised? They would expect a marriage alliance. His Grace is already married, your brothers are dead, and your sister is missing. The only one left would be you. You couldn’t marry your cousin Robert, he is too young, but you could marry his heir. Harrold Hardyng. Harry. He is only a squire yet, but comelier than me. Or Lady Waynwood’s grandson Roland. A gallant knight, and a good and friendly man. He would take good care of you.” Then he paused. “Harry and Roland are both near mine own age, but it could also be Lord Corbray. Lord Lyonel. He is of high standing in the Vale and is in need of a wife.”

Domeric sounded somewhat upset, but only somewhat. His jaw was clenching. _That is his tell, _Sansa thought. _He clenches his jaw when he is unhappy._ He sighed and tried to hug her closer. She could feel the heat coming off of him. _I am unhappy too. How can he tell me he loves me and say such awful things too? Why couldn’t we just enjoy being together? Why did he have to ruin it?_

“Your brother could not give you to me, Sansa. He needs you to do your duty, and your duty lies elsewhere.” He breathed in deep and hugged her closer. “What if we didn’t go back, aye? We could go across the Narrow Sea. To Lys, or, or to Lorath, or to Tyrosh, and your brother and alliances wouldn’t matter, it could just be you and me – ”

Sansa jerked back. She didn’t want to go to Lys, or to Lorath, or to Tyrosh. She didn’t want to do her duty, or at least what he said her duty was. Everything he said made sense. Too much sense. She didn’t want him to be right, but how could he not be right? She could find no flaw in anything he said. She turned her face away. The tears were coming now in ugly, sniffly sobs that she could not swallow.

_I don’t want that, _Sansa thought. _I don’t want to go to Lys or to Lorath or to Tyrosh. I don’t want Willas Tyrell or Lancel Lannister. I don’t want Harry Hardyng or Roland Waynwood or Lyonel Corbray. I want Domeric Bolton. I want his kisses and his singing I want to be his lady wife and have his babies. We will call them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon and they will have dark hair and pretty eyes like moons and we will wrap them in pink blankets. We will have tourneys on the Weeping Water and have feasts and music and dancing in the hall. I don’t want to go to the Rock or Highgarden or the Vale. I want to stay in the North and live at the Dreadfort and be its lady. I want to be Lady Bolton and wear the flayed man on my back. I love Domeric and I do not care if he flays his foes and hangs their skins on his walls. I want to be Domeric’s wife. I want him to be my lord husband, and no one else._

“Do you mean that, Sansa?”

Sansa had thought aloud. She brought her hands over her face in shame. Domeric unwrapped himself from around her and slid his long fingers underneath her palms. He gently pried them forward until she could no longer hide. He did let go of one of her hands, and brought his face close enough so that their noses were mere inches apart.

“Do you mean that?” Sansa nodded.

“You love me and you want to be my lady wife?” Sansa nodded again.

“And you do not care about the flayed man banner. About the flaying.” She shook her head.

“You want me and no one else.” Another nod.

Her eyes were wet and wide, but his were kind. He released her other hand and began to trace the tear tracks on her face with the pads of his thumbs. When he opened his mouth, she could barely hear him. His voice was like the breath of a ghost, his breath, the ghost’s touch.

“Aye, then. It cannot be helped.” Another breath, another ghost. His voice came louder now. “Please do not cry.”

It started so suddenly that she did not feel it at first. His face was already so close. The brush and slide of his mouth was so soft, so light at first that she thought it was the ghostly breath again. But it was his hands that let her know that it was real, that it was him, and then the press of his lips grew harder. One hand found the base of her neck, the other, her waist, and they were warm, and they were pulling her into him. Her mouth was already open, so his tongue did not beg entrance, he just touched it to hers, just the tip, and then he slid it back along the inside of her teeth, across her lower lip, and then down along her tongue again, and then she wanted to touch him, but his grip was too tight, and all she could do with her hands was limply brace herself against the ground, and then… and then… and then…

Could ice melt upward? Could sparks fly down? They must have been able to, though all wisdom said elsewise. She was melting, but she was melting _up_, up from the source, to the source, through the source, the source of the heat, the touch of his tongue against hers. She was melting up, and she was flowing up. Flowing into him. And the sparks were flying down too. Sparks were flying down, down to somewhere in her tummy, down from the source of the heat. His mouth. She was melting upward, and sparks were flying down. But ice melted down, and sparks flew up. The world must have been upside down. She was disoriented, dizzy, and the only things telling her which way was up and which way was down were his mouth and his hands, but his hands kept moving…

When they broke apart Domeric let out a shaky breath.

“No Brandons.”

“Ser?” Sansa could hardly believe she could speak at all. There was a whole colony of bats in her heart now, each one beating their wings as fast as they could go.

“There has never been a Brandon Bolton. Or an Eddard. Those are not Bolton names.” He paused. “Royce and Roose and Donner and Donnel. Bertram and Belthasar. Those are Bolton names. Rickon is fine. Or Rodrik. Never Brandon. Never Eddard, either.”

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat. “Then – you mean – Robb and Mother – we can try – ”

“Aye,” he said, “we can try.”

Sansa could have squealed, but squeals were ugly sounds. Instead she wiggled out of his grasp and wound her arms around his neck for another kiss. _We can try, _Sansa thought as she smiled into his mouth. _And we’ll succeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Sansa finally got her kiss. It's been a few weeks for us, but for her it's been something like 4 days. Which felt like a long time. Dom's really been yanking her chain, hasn't he? Not very nice of him. But he had his reasons. Are those reasons good? Sansa disagrees.
> 
> Next week we switch POVs again.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading, commenting, leaving kudos. I appreciate it.


	21. Robert I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert Ryswell meets the survivors from Duskendale and makes a report to Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous cursing abounds in this chapter.

Robert Ryswell relished riding through the reaches of the Riverlands, for it reminded him of the Rills, only warmer. The mighty Trident rushed wider, roared louder than the slow and swampy Fever River, but the songs of her daughters and granddaughters warbled in his ears like the babbling brooks back home. He hadn’t been south of the Neck since those sixteen moons he’d spent a squire at Seagard several years’ past, and he hadn’t returned since. ‘Twas a shame, really – his father had met Lord Jason during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and they’d both agreed that every lord on the Sunset Sea needed a strong fleet and sound sailors to stop those fucking squids from ever reaving again.

He hadn’t been knighted – aye, he’d left Seagard before he’d become a man grown – but it hadn’t been a waste. Lord Jason thought well of him. When he’d been called to the lord’s solar on that last day, Lord Jason had walked him to the tower window and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Lad,” he’d said, “I’ll be sad to see you go. You’ve been a good squire. None’s ever cleaned the eagle’s wings on my helm so well. You’re a decent sword, and a fine lance too. Are you truly sure you don’t want to be a knight?”

“Aye, my lord,” Robert had replied. “I am sure. Thank you for taking me on. It has been an honor to serve you.”

Robert had been sure. Still was. At five-and-ten he’d knelt in the Seagard godswood praying over his future, and the gods had given him his answer. The next step on for a squire was knighthood, and knighthood meant a knight’s vows. Lord Jason had said he could say his vows in front of the heart tree if he wanted, and Robert had been grateful for the consideration. Stuffy old Septon Berrigan had needled Lord Jason about how a knight’s vows simply needed to be sworn in a sept in the Seven’s light, but the proud old eagle had brushed him off in respect of Robert’s faith. Looking into the face of the Seagard heart tree, Robert knew he wouldn’t dare take those vows.

A knight’s vows were too hard to keep. There were too many. Be brave? Aye, he could do that. His mother was a Stout of Goldgrass, and all Stouts of Goldgrass were brave of soul and stout of heart. Defend the weak and protect all women? Aye, he could do that too. Obey his liege lord? In most cases yes, but what if your liege lord was stupid, craven, or treacherous? Others take a stupid liege lord, and a craven or treacherous one too. And to be just, and champion the innocent? How was he to know what was just? Who was he to decide who was innocent? He was only a man who knew the law. He was not a god. And he would not – would _dare not _– give his blood to the heart tree and look into the face of the old gods and swear a vow he did not know he would be able to keep.

So he’d said as much to Lord Jason, and Lord Jason had accepted his answer. “I’d be hard pressed to find another lad who took oaths so seriously. Or the gods. That is very honorable of you, young Robert,” he had said. “But it means that your time as my squire must end. There are many young men who would be my squire, and who I would dub fine knights.”

Robert had understood. He and Lord Jason understood each other. How could they not, after having spent so much time together? Lord Jason had taken him out sailing on Ironman’s Bay, patrolling the coast around the Cape of Eagles and as far north as the Flint Cliffs. He’d gotten his sea legs and learned how to stave off greensickness. He’d learned how to tie half a hundred sorts of knots and how to fight when the deck was slipping under your feet. He’d learned how to scrub a deck and read the stars and winds. Sailing was almost as good as riding a horse. Almost. A ship wasn’t alive. A ship couldn’t be your friend.

Aye, his time at Seagard had been worth it. More than worth it. Lord Jason had sent him off with detailed plans for galleass and galleys, as well as shipwright and a young captain he could not afford to pay. House Ryswell would have a fleet. The North would have a western port city to rival White Harbor. If Robert couldn’t be the next Lord of the Rills, he could be the Lord Admiral of the Ryswell Fleet, and that would be grand too. They’d build up Gravelton at mouth of the Greatrill and see trade from the Arbor and Dorne and Lannisport. They could sell prized ironwood logs and the finest pelts in all the known world, and northern icewines. The North would be rich! House Ryswell would be rich! Eventually. They’d never be known as the Dothraki of the snow again. Not with a fleet. Not with a port. Everyone knew that the Dothraki hated the ocean. But first they would need to build the fleet, and build the port, and get the Starks to pay for it.

When he’d arrived home, Grandfather Rodrik and Father had looked over the papers Lord Jason had sent with him, had a discussion with the shipwright and the young captain, and drawn up the plans to hire excess men from White Harbor and request a loan from Lord Stark. So they’d sent the letter, and it had taken them months to get a reply. _Thank you for writing, Lord Ryswell, I am reviewing your proposal, _was all it had said. It hadn’t even been in Lord Stark’s hand – Father knew what that looked like – it had been penned by the Winterfell maester. But this was Lord Stark they were writing to, so they had to grit their teeth and wait a few more weeks before following up again. _Thank you Lord Ryswell, I must consult with my steward._ _Thank you Lord Ryswell, we are auditing the treasury. Thank you Lord Ryswell, I am conferring with Lord Manderly._ Delay, delay, delay, and bugger Lord Too-Fat! Bugger Lord Stark and his steward too.

Grandfather had thought that Lord Stark was just stealing their plans so that he could give his youngest or his bastard a seat on Sea Dragon Point, but it turned out that Lord Stark had just been overwhelmed. Eventually they’d come away with a loan that wouldn’t cover even a quarter of the fleet they’d wanted to build, so they’d had to use their own coin to start the work. Slow going, that was. So they’d started work on the galleys _Ryder’s Ghost_ and _Lady Robyn_ along with a few longships to round out the dozen or so they’d already had. The galleass _Proud Stallion _and _Sentinel Seventy-Nine_ and the rest were going to have to wait. When Lord Stark had been named Lord Hand, Father had thought that they could have angled for a city charter for Gravelton and more coin for the fleet, but no, _Thank you, Lord Ryswell, I tell you this in confidence, but the Crown cannot afford such an expenditure. _And then Lord Stark had been relieved of his head. Bugger the Crown.

No thanks to Lord Stark, Father had been able to stave off the Ironmen from harrying the Ryswell coast or rowing up Greatrill and the Blazewater River, leaving Uncle Rick to take much of the horse and to defend the banks of the Blazewater. Thus, the Dustin men could fortify Barrowton and patrol the Barrowlands without worrying about the west. Beth had sent him a bird telling how Don and Young Rod had come back with a string of Goodbrother skulls and the heads of a Drumm, an Orkwood, and a Codd, and after that he’d known things would be fine. It was a fucking shame about Saltspear, Deepwood, and Torrhen’s Square, but they only had so many men and so many ships, no thanks to Lord Stark. No thanks to His Grace or the Manderlys either. It was all thanks to Lord Jason.

“Try to shake off the wenching before you get home,” Lord Jason had told him when he’d been sent off. “I’ve let you spend too much time with Patrek, and your father won’t thank me for it.”

“Aye, my lord,” was all he’d said. “I will try.” Fuck, he’d hadn’t really tried, had he? Pat had taken him out and whetted his taste for women and it had never gone away, and now Grandfather Rodrik thought he was unserious. _If some lass presents me with a Snow to keep fed and sheltered and says it’s yours, I’ll know in my heart you’re unfit to rule_. _You know well to guard the blood, I’ve told you enough times. _Aye, that had hurt. But he’d never regret those nights carousing out with Pat. Those were fond memories. Pat was his friend, and he’d even liked Ser Edmure enough, when he came to visit. It was good to know that there was at least one Tully that wasn’t either a loon or a grasping, slippery watersnake.

He’d been happy to go back North and see his sisters, but he’d missed Lord Jason and Patrek and all the Seagard household. Lord Jason had taken him all over the western part of the Riverlands. They’d gone up to the Twins and down to Hag’s Mire, past Oldstones and Fairmarket, all the way down to Riverrun. He hadn’t been any further south than Riverrun, or further east than the Red Fork. Not until now, at least. Now, as a rider out scouting in this stupid war, he’d been as far as High Heart and within sight of Acorn Hall. From Harrenhal he scouted halfway to Stony Sept in the southwest and halfway to Sow’s Horn in the southeast.

He could just picture what it was like in springtime. Herons would swoop down, bursting forth from the morning mist, spearing trouts as they leaped into the air, only to stand up, tall and proud, on their long and spindly bird legs and raise their beaks to the dawning sun before they flew away again. In the summer the girls – highborn and low, from the great castles to the petty holdfasts to the villages and the farms – would run into the streams in just their shifts, hiking their hems up about their knees, and they’d wade in the water up to their waists to escape the heat. Then in the afternoon, the air would simmer and buzz, a deep booming thunderclap would herald the coming of the evening rains, and the girls would run across the fields and through the forests with wet white fabric clinging to their skin. How beautiful! How glorious! How blessed were the Riverlords for their rich bounty! It was no wonder that _Fair Maids of Summer_ had been written here!

But now it was autumn, and it was all burning. The Riverlands weren’t beautiful anymore.

Fuck this stupid war. Fuck the Lannisters, and the Ironmen too. For fuck’s sake, why did Cat Tully have to go off, capture the Imp, take him to the Eyrie, only for Lysa to let him go? By the gods, Ser Edmure’s older sisters were both crazy! And now the kingdom of their birth was burning.

Smoke tickled Robert’s nose as his horse leaped over a fallen log just east of the God’s Eye, and he sneezed. _Eurgh_. The column from Duskendale was near. They were due back any day. Any day now, and Dom would come back. Dom, and Harrion Karstark. There was news for those two.

On the one hand, Robert wanted to be the one to sight the column, to welcome Dom back from the march and tell him about the bird he’d received that day they’d gone on the wolf hunt. On the other hand, if he was the one to meet the column, he’d also need to tell Harrion that he was now Lord Karstark, and that was news that he did not want to break.

By the gods, did the King Who Lost the North want to lose not just castles, but his bannermen too? What was he thinking, executing _Rickard_ _Karstark_? For fuck’s sake, the Karstarks were one of the most loyal houses to the Starks, possibly _the_ most loyal. Well, now they wouldn’t be. Not anymore. His Grace could have held Lord Rickard hostage, or at least sent him to the Wall. First the Freys, now the Karstarks. How did His Grace hope to win back the North? Fuck, they were all going to hang once the inevitable came and they lost to the Lannisters.

No, Robert didn’t want to be the one to sight the column. Robert did not want to have that conversation with Harrion Karstark. He could tell Dom about the bird he’d had from Father when they were all back at Harrenhal.

Robert had discussed it with Roose while Dom and Lord Bolton went off ahead. That skeevy bastard Qyburn had let him know about the raven. Oh, Aunt Barbrey would get a kick out of that one. Was there anyone who ever hated maesters more? Anyhow. A betrothal! He’d been betrothed! In the middle of a war! How grand! Father and Grandfather must have been optimistic about his prospects, not just of survival, but for sitting the Rillseat too. And it was a good marriage. Sara Glenmore was to be his wife; she was the second daughter of Loren Glenmore, the petty lord of Rillwater Crossing, and Rybeca Ryswell, Ser Mark’s sister. They must have thought so highly of him to give him the closest thing Ser Mark had to a daughter. Everyone had loved Ser Mark. Ser Mark was supposed to be the next Lord of the Rills by now. And they were giving Robert his niece! Surely that meant that Robert was in Grandfather’s good graces again! Roose had agreed.

Dom had been off with Lord Bolton for the entire hunt, and then had rushed off to gods only knew where once they had returned to the castle. Robert had looked all over Harrenhal for him and hadn’t run into him once. That was to be expected, Harrenhal was too damn big. Robert had finally located him in his chambers that evening, but the Dreadfort guard had let him know that Dom had taken a sleeping draught for the night, and Robert had walked away relieved. Finally, Dom had done something sensible. Dom needed his sleep. They all could see it.

Harrenhal had been eating him, Robert could tell. Eating him, or sucking his spirit out like the bats that lived in the towers. This must have been what Father saw whenever he’d visited Aunt Beth at the Dreadfort. The Dreadfort had eaten her, leeched out her life essence. Dark circles under her eyes, like she never slept, and her mouth always pointing downward. Her voice always softer and softer. Everyone who lived at the Dreadfort had a soft voice. It made Father sad to speak of Aunt Beth, Grandfather too. Dom had much of Aunt Beth in him, everyone said. And now Harrenhal was eating him, like the Dreadfort had eaten Aunt Beth. It made Robert sad.

Dom had needed some good news, especially after his plan to rescue the princess got rejected. Fuck, he’d been so depressed after that. It was good that Dom had left Harrenhal. Dom had needed to get out and taste some battle glory. That is, if Dom hadn’t gone and done something stupid. It would be just like him to want to run off and play the hero like a knight out of the songs. To charge out from the front when Lord Bolton would have him overseeing the battle from the rear. But it would be even more like him to just clench his jaw and walk himself back after he cooled off and brooded for a bit. He would just need someone to remind him to cool off.

When Robert had realized that Dom had left for Duskendale, he’d been worried and talked to Roose about it. Roose had shrugged his shoulders. Everything would be fine.

“You know what Lord Bolton’s like. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Dom. Dom’s with the Cerwyn men. So the Cerwyn men will be in the rear, Glover and Tallhart will do the fighting and take all the losses, and Dom will come back with Condon leading the retreat.”

Roose was right about Lord Bolton. Dom would be fine. But with Dom gone there was no point in staying in the castle, so Robert had joined Roose and the outriders so he wouldn’t be bored.

Aye, he’d have to talk to Dom as soon as he got back. Dom needed a pick-me-up. Robert still hadn’t written Lady Sara yet, for fear of messing up and writing something stupid. But Dom was a wizard with the written word. Dom could help him write a proper love letter. Dom would want to help make it perfect. Dom loved helping.

And Lady Sara deserved a proper love letter. Hair like honey and eyes the color of stone, with pretty lips and a prettier laugh. How she had laughed at his japes the last time he’d stopped by Rillwater! He hadn’t taken her maidenhead but it had been a near thing. They’d been kissing by the stables and he’d stuck the point of his dagger into the knot of her bodice and she’d known what he’d wanted. She’d shown him her pretty teats and let him cop a feel. And now when they got back home, he’d be married right away, and he'd be staring at her pretty face and pretty lips and pretty teats every night for the rest of his life.

The column was close, so he’d get to talk to Dom about it, but he’d have to speak to Karstark too. Fuck. He’d have to think of something to say. Something tactful.

Robert’s horse jumped over a thin rivulet. _There_. On the horizon. He could see it. The column. He approached until he was within shouting distance and then hailed them with a wave.

“What ho!”

The head of the column was a haggard knight with a stained silver surcoat. Two red tridents crossed around a red eagle’s head stretched over his chest. The knight’s eyes were sunken and his scraggly beard had seen better days. By the gods, was that Condon? He looked like he’d been dragged through the Seven Hells and climbed out by a weirwood root. Behind him he saw tattered banners drooping, their bearers clearly exhausted. The black battle-axe on silver, the white sunburst on black, the brown bull moose on orange. No Glovers or Tallharts. Fuck.

“Ser Kyle?”

“Roose Ryswell?”

“No, I am Robert. Report?”

Condon took a breath. “Defeat. A thousand dead, at least. Some six hundred wounded who could still march. We never reached the walls of Duskendale.”

“Understood. Notable casualties?”

“Helman Tallhart. Dead beyond doubt. Robett Glover, likely taken. Harrion Karstark. Dead or taken.” Then Condon paused, took a shaky breath, and met Robert’s eyes. “Domeric Bolton. Dead or taken.”

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck! _Dom, dead or taken? This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to come back… Lord Bolton wouldn’t put Dom in a place where he couldn’t at least keep himself safe. Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck!_ There was a lump in Robert’s throat, and it was growing. The pain was tight.

“Robert?” Yes. Condon. The report. He was a soldier, he had a duty. Pain was for later. Robert focused his gaze on Condon’s, and in those slate eyes he saw fear. “Am I going to be flayed?”

What? Erm. Maybe? How the fuck was he supposed to know what Lord Bolton was going to do? But that wasn’t what Condon needed to hear. Robert chuckled nervously.

“Of course not. Lord Bolton can’t flay you. His Grace would take his head. You’re in command of the Cerwyn men. The North needs you. Besides, flaying is illegal.”

Condon narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. Skeptical, he was. Robert continued. “I’ll ride back to the castle. Send back horses and wagons and carts. Food and more maesters. It’ll take me a day and a half to get there. Depending on how fast you’re marching, the horses should meet you three or four days after that. Lord Bolton will expect a full report when you arrive. Aye?”

“Aye.”

Robert was going to take his leave, but there was one more thing. He couldn’t forget. “Who commands the Karstark men here?”

“Karl Greycliff.”

“Send him forward.”

Karl Greycliff was a grizzled man past thirty, a petty lord with a bushy brown beard and cool grey-blue eyes. When Robert finished explaining about the Lannister boys and Lord Rickard and His Grace, black rage twisted Karl’s dirty face. “Thank ye for the report, young Robert.” Then Karl left to inform his men, and stewed.

After that, Robert took his leave and rode like the wind. As he flew back to Harrenhal, arse up and body bent close over his red courser’s back, more than once he felt warm tears mingling with the cool sweat on his face.

Dom. Dom. Dom. How? Robert couldn’t believe it. Dom was supposed to come back. When the war was over, they were supposed sail down the Blazewater together and go ice fishing on Saltspear. Dom was supposed to see Robert’s wedding and spout sweet words to Lady Sara while Don and Young Rod made bawdy japes and ripped off her clothes. They were supposed to go off and ride in tourneys and show those pretty southron dandies that Northmen could be fine lances too. Dom was a prisoner. Aye. A prisoner. Was he injured? Robert hoped not. But at least if he were the Lannister maesters would treat him well. Dom was too valuable to let die. Lord Bolton would strongarm Ser Edmure into making whatever trade was needed to get Dom back. And if the Lannisters refused a trade and asked for a ransom instead, well, Lord Bolton was rich now, and Aunt Barbrey would drain the Barrowton coffers to get him back too. Aye, Dom was a prisoner, but they would get him back.

Robert refused to imagine the alternative. He didn’t want to imagine a world with a hole in it, a hole shaped like Domeric Bolton. Then he’d be left with only Roose and Don and Young Rod, and things wouldn’t be the same. Roose was fine, but with Don and Young Rod it was always a contest. There was always the sinking feeling that sweet friendship would sour into bitter rivalry. With Dom nothing was a competition. They all could just appreciate him. His quiet presence and his soft words. His efforts to stop the petty bickering. His poetry. His music. It didn’t matter that he was a better horseman than the rest of them, and his name wasn’t even Ryswell. Fuck. Robert’s face was wet again.

He reached the little holdfast where the scouts were supposed to camp and regroup later that evening. The twilight sky was pink, and the setting sun was red. Pink and red, like the flayed man banner. It must have been a sign. Aye, the gods were telling him that Dom was all right.

Roose and the other outriders were already there. Robert must have been the last.

“I found them,” Robert told Roose.

“Good,” said Roose. “How’s Dom?”

Robert relayed what Condon had said. Roose blanched.

“Fuck this shit war.” Roose was taking it hard too. “You sleep now,” said Roose. “Here’s your food. We won’t make you take watch tonight. At first light go back to the castle and tell Lord Bolton, and make sure the lads from Duskendale get their horses.”

“Aye.”

Sleep didn’t come easy that night. He lay in his bedroll and stared up at the little holdfast’s stone ceiling. _Dom, are you out there? Are you in a cell, or chained up on the back of a wagon? Are they feeding you salted meat, or just hard bread and gruel? Or did they lock you in the Dun Fort, with a featherbed and hot clam stew and wine?_

He’d have to write letters when he got back to Harrenhal. One to Barrowton, to Aunt Barbrey and Branna. Maybe Grandfather Harwood would be at Barrow Hall when they opened it. He hoped Grandfather Harwood would be there. Branna would need someone to hug. Aunt Barbrey would just crumple up the parchment, stomp off alone, and rage. Another to the Rillseat, to Grandfather Rodrik and Father and Mother and Uncle Rick and Beth. They’d be in Grandfather Rodrik’s solar when the letter was opened, sitting on couches by the hearth. Grandfather would open it first, read it, and then hand the scroll to Father and go and stand by the window. It would fall to Father to read his letter out loud, and then all would be silent. And then Uncle Rick would start shouting at Father, and Mother and Beth would leave.

And another to Rillwater, to Sara Glenmore. Fuck. He’d forgotten about her. Now his letter would be stupid, because Dom wouldn’t be there to help.

He was so tired when he entered Harrenhal through the postern gate the next day. The first person he saw was Ronnel Stout, milling about in russet and gold, his favorite uncle in the world. Roose didn’t count. Roose was more like an older brother than an uncle. Uncle Rick was a right prick, Lord Willam was dead, and no one would call Lord Bolton their favorite anything. Thank goodness for Ronnel. He didn’t even make Robert call him uncle. Just Ronnel.

“You found them, lad?”

“Aye, I did.”

“Not good news, I take it.”

“No.”

“Who came back?”

“Just Ser Kyle. Over a thousand lost. Six hundred or more wounded.”

“I’ll take it they need a welcome party?”

“That they do.”

“Right then. I’ll see to it. You talk to Lord Bolton.”

“Aye.” Ronnel then started off shouting at the men to ready the wagons and horses.

Robert gave his horse to a stableboy and made his way to the Kingspyre Tower. The dread grew as he ascended the spiral stairs. _Remember, son,_ Father had said, before he’d ridden for Moat Cailin, _no man of House Ryswell has anything to fear of Roose Bolton. He needs our reputation more than we need his. He might not want you to think it, but he is just a man. And you’re a bigger man, and a better one. _

That wasn’t what Dom would have said. Dom was afraid of his father, and thought that everyone else should be too. When they were boys Dom had been convinced that Lord Bolton would flay his toes if he did anything wrong. Robert had chuckled nervously and said, _But flaying’s illegal. He can’t do that. Grandfather wouldn’t let him. _Dom had just whispered, _Yes he would, _and hadn’t said anything to anyone for the rest of the day. That night Robert had asked Father if Lord Bolton would really have done that to Dom. _I don’t think so,_ Father had said,_ but he wants Domeric to think so. He wants Domeric to be afraid so he will be under his control. But Domeric is his heir, and I don’t know a man who would truly risk his heir by his own hand unless he had committed a crime. _If even Father thought that Lord Bolton wouldn’t do it, then he wouldn’t. No man alive hated Roose Bolton more than Roger Ryswell.

Robert was nearing the top of the stairs. There were two Dreadfort men outside the door. Robert started squaring his shoulders. He thought of his mother, bidding him goodbye in the courtyard before he rode to war. _Remember, Robbie, you have the blood of the Stouts of Goldgrass,_ she had said, with her hands on his cheeks. _And all Stouts of Goldgrass are brave of soul and stout of heart._

“What business have you?” said one of the guards.

“We found the survivors from Duskendale.” Robert’s voice did not shake. _I have nothing to fear from the man behind that door._ “I have come to give a report.”

Then the guard slammed the butt of his spear and banged on the door. “Lord Bolton, Robert Ryswell to see you.”

“Enter,” came a voice, muffled and soft. The door opened.

All the curtains were drawn and the room was very dark. It was midday, and the tower had many windows, but it seemed that Roose Bolton did not care for light that did not come from little flames struggling for life. Lord Bolton was sitting behind a desk with a bowl of grapes in front of him, and beside it lay a pile of peels.

“How may I be of service to you, young Robert?”

Robert straightened his back and gave the news of Duskendale. Lord Bolton watched him coolly. _Those eyes do not scare me. Those are Dom’s eyes, and that is Dom’s father. _There was a sheen of sweat building on the back of Robert’s neck.

“You worry for my son.”

“I do.” There was no use lying to Lord Bolton. He looked like he could see through anything. He wouldn’t need his flaying knife to figure out the truth.

Lord Bolton picked up said flaying knife with one hand, a grape with the other, and skinned it with one stroke without looking away from Robert’s face. Then he dropped the peel unceremoniously onto the pile. _That doesn’t scare me, Dom can do that too._

Lord Bolton skewered the grape with his knife and ate it off the curved tip without making a sound. “Do not fret for Domeric, nephew. I have it on good word from Lord Tywin that he will be returned to us.”

A wave of relief crashed over Robert’s heart. “Thank goodness. I am grateful that you have shared as much with me, Lord Bolton.” Then Robert paused. _How could Lord Bolton have had word from Lord Tywin so quickly? I just learned the news yesterday and they took no birds to Duskendale. _He shook the thought away. _Lord Tywin just sent the raven to Harrenhal the moment he knew they captured Dom._ “Who is Lord Tywin asking to trade? Or are you paying a ransom?” The relief was ebbing away. _Dom’s eyes are not scary._ _Ghost grey is just a color._

“It is none of your concern.” It really wasn’t. Robert wasn’t a commander. It was just courtesy that he was invited to the meetings at all. “The war should be ending soon, young Robert. We will have Domeric with us again. At the end of the year, or shortly after.”

Robert hoped that was true. That meant a peace was coming. They couldn’t win. They would be making concessions. Brides would be sold off, reparations paid. Fuck, he hoped Beth and Branna wouldn’t be included. He hoped they’d stay North. But there was no use worrying. He’d find out later. It was only a few more weeks now. The peace. He wanted to get Dom back. He wanted to go home. He wanted everything to just stop burning, and he missed his sisters.

“I am glad of that, Lord Bolton. Thank you for sharing.”

Robert took his leave, and rushed down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we couldn't just leave Roose Bolton alone, could we? There's a whole ensemble cast Domeric left behind at Harrenhal!
> 
> I made Robert the grandson of Harwood Stout, because one time we saw Roger Ryswell and Harwood Stout laughing together. You don't need to be in-laws to laugh together but it seemed like a logical move. I also debated whether to just make stuff up about Roose Ryswell to fill the role of this character, but then I realized that family squabbles are always more fun when the factions are diverse and numerous. And I think it's easier to have a "friend" type relationship with someone who's a cousin than an uncle of a similar age. There's generational baggage that comes with that.
> 
> There may or may not be an uneven bromance going on here. In the canon universe where Domeric was poisoned by his enemies, Robbie ugly cried and didn't care who was looking.
> 
> My headcanon is that one of the Ryswells (most likely Rickard but it could have been Rodrik in a less composed moment) made up the moniker "Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse." It started as their inside joke, and then Brandon Stark heard it, perhaps at some tavern in Barrowton, and then it was only a matter of time until the whole North was fat shaming Lord Wyman. But the Ryswells high key throw shade on anyone who can't ride.
> 
> A Roose Bolton flex is peeling grapes.
> 
> Please raise your hand if you would object to this story's rating being kicked up to an E. It might not necessarily. I am going to write what I am going to write. But honestly I have no idea where the line between M and E is.
> 
> ETA: Merry Christmas everyone. Hope you all get to enjoy time with your friends, families, and loved ones this holiday season.


	22. Domeric XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric whiles away the last few days in Duskendale living in his own head. A very interior chapter. A sappy maudlin one.
> 
> When you get past the middle, just remember, I love Myranda Royce, but she isn't for everyone.
> 
> Additional warning for some pretty extreme misogyny from the ghost Waymar Royce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eyes saw how much pity  
was apparent in your face,  
when you gazed at the attitude and form  
that I often appear in through grief.  
Then I understood that you would know  
the nature of my hidden life,  
so that I felt fear in my heart  
of showing my misery in my eyes.  
And taking myself away from you,  
I felt that the tears rose from my heart,  
which were summoned by your look.  
Then I said to my sad spirit:  
'It must be that Love lives within this lady  
who makes me go weeping so.'
> 
> \- Dante Alighieri, 'My eyes saw how much pity', La Vita Nuova

He shouldn’t have kissed her.

He shouldn’t have kissed her that night on the beach, or when they got back to the inn, or the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after that. He’d kissed her half a hundred times, but they all felt like mistakes.

_“And when the savage giant lay dead on the ground, Serwyn sheathed his sword, and rushed up the stairs to the highest room in the tallest tower of the giant’s castle. There, chained against the wall, knelt Daeryssa, the princess of his dreams. He lay his Mirror Shield on the ground, looked into Daeryssa’s face, and kissed her. And since his kiss was true love’s kiss, the giant’s curse was broken, and the magic chains that bound her shattered into a thousand shards, and the dark tower was filled with light, gleaming off the Mirror Shield. And then, hand in hand, they descended from the tower, and went off to hunt the dragon that held the Reach in torment. Only then, when the dragon was dead, would old King Gardener let Serwyn marry his lady love.”_

That was where Mother had stopped reading that night, the night he had asked her about kissing. “Kisses are only for your family, my Dommie lad, my love, unless they’re kisses to a lady’s hand. Kisses on the face are for the little brothers and sisters I will give you, and for me. For your children, and your lady love, your wife.”

“But you are Father’s lady wife, and Father never kisses you.”

Mother had looked so sad then, sitting by his bed with their special book in her lap. “No,” she had said, “but that is because I am only your father’s lady wife, and not his lady love.” Domeric had nodded his head. He didn’t think that Father loved him either. “But sweetling, when you marry your lady wife, you should try to love her. Your wife should be your lady love. And I know you will succeed, because my darling Dommie lad succeeds at everything he tries. Good night, my little knight. I love you.” Then Mother had kissed his forehead, pressed her nose to his, retired to her chambers, and left him in the dark.

Domeric’s first kiss had been at the Eyrie, in a storeroom. Lord Horton had had some business with Lord Nestor in his capacity as High Steward of the Vale, and Domeric had been left with the other squires to do as he pleased. That was where he had met Waymar’s cousin, Myranda. At nearly four-and-ten Domeric couldn’t tear his eyes away from her breasts, and whenever she, smiling, met his gaze, he would flush pink as a Bolton banner. She had noticed him staring and had led him to the siloes, and pulled him into the grain.

Later that week Domeric had gone picking flowers for Randa in Lady Lysa’s garden. He found the best flowers for her at the feet of Alyssa Arryn’s statue. They were orchids, and they were the best because they were pink of petal and red at the center. The next time he saw her, he was going to give them to her, and if she said she loved him too he was going to write to his father and then Randa would be the next Lady of the Dreadfort. But the next time he’d seen her, she’d been pressing Lyle Lynderly against the wall, biting his neck and palming his breeches while Lyle fondled her ample chest. Domeric had crumpled the orchids in his hand and turned away.

Still later that week Randa had sought him out again, and tried for another kiss. He’d refused, and then she’d asked him why. After he’d explained, she’d giggled and tossed her curly brown hair.

“Silly Domeric. Whoever told you that was stupid. You don’t have to save your kisses for your wife. You don’t even have to save them for your lady love. Kissing can just be for fun. See?” Then Randa had grabbed his collar and stuck her tongue down his throat again, but he’d jerked away, wiped his sleeve over his mouth, and spat.

She looked shocked for a moment. And then she laughed.

Never before had Domeric heard a crueler sound than Myranda Royce’s laughter, except for his father’s silence.

There’d been other kisses with other girls, but Randa had been the first. And the worst.

Domeric had talked to Waymar about it when he and Lord Horton had returned from the Eyrie. How could his cousin be such a bitch? “Don’t worry, Dom. You don’t have to listen to a fat slattern like Randa. Girls like her, they look at you and they decide you’re handsome, and because they’re pretty they know you’re looking too. A woman’s looks, that’s her weapon. Her kisses, her tears, her cunt. They look at you and think, aye, it would be fun to play _him_ for a fool. It makes them feel powerful, to know they can disarm men who could cut them down in a moment. And if they don’t want to make you into a fool, they want to marry you, and then they always want something. If you’re an heir, they want to be lady of your castle. If you’re not, either you’re nothing, or they’re some merchant’s daughter who wants her children to be noble. They don’t want you for you. You’re just a tool to them. A stepping stone. If they praise anything that _you_ do that you weren’t born with, it’s so they can brag to the other ladies while they’re sewing, and act all high and mighty while claiming your accomplishments, when they did nothing at all.”

Then Waymar had held up his sword hand. “This right here, this is my lady love. I don’t need to defend her. She’s the one who defends me. She feeds me when I’m hungry and sates my need when my blood is up. If I must cry, she dries my tears. Me, when I’m knighted, I’m off to the Wall. I’ll rise high on my own valor and no woman will ever be able to drape herself in my glory. No snake will ever tempt me to stain my honor, or steer me away from my goals. I’ll miss Ysilla and Ryella, but I won’t have to deal with those snakes with pretty faces ever again.”

Domeric hadn’t wanted Waymar to be right. He’d wanted a lady wife that he could kiss and hold and call his lady love. Who would love him in return and who wouldn’t hate him for making her a Bolton. He wanted to be a kind lord husband almost as much as he wanted to be a true knight. He had objected, said that his mother and his Ryswell cousins and Ysilla and the Redfort girls weren’t like that, but Waymar had just scoffed.

“It doesn’t count if they’re your mother or your kin. Jeyne’s just a little girl, and Cassie and Jessie are like sisters. Don’t mess around with that lady love nonsense, Dom. If you need to get your wick wet just pay a whore and be done with it. You’re an heir, you’ll need a wife, but you should just put a few sons in her and ignore her.”

Domeric had talked to Mychel and then decided that he was going to ignore Waymar instead. Not about the whores, but about the rest. Perhaps he shouldn’t have, even though Waymar had been wrong. Sansa wasn’t a snake. Sansa was different. Sansa was special. Sansa was perfect. But she would never be his, would never be his lady wife, and that was why kissing her and loving her and letting her hope had been a mistake. Mychel’s encouragement aside, messing around with all that lady love nonsense hurt. He was playing with fire, and instead of running he was basking in the warmth. He had been too cold to notice himself burning.

The morning after they got to Duskendale, the first thing they did was take a trip to the docks to inquire after passage to Gulltown. There was going to be a ship leaving in three days, a Tyroshi merchant’s cog with room below for his horse. No amount of coin could buy them a cabin, for the trade envoys from Pentos and Myr had purchased all of them. Domeric didn’t like it, but it would have to do. They needed to get out of the Crownlands and into the Vale as soon as possible.

After the docks, they’d gone back to the Seven Swords and fetched the jewelry she had brought to sell. They went back to that ladies’ shop he had visited on the way south. The shopkeep’s eyes had gone wide when they’d entered together, and she’d had to cover her mouth when Sansa had brought out the jewels. Domeric’s chest had swelled with pride just standing next to her. The shopkeep had given Domeric ten dragons’ worth of coin and offered Sansa the pick of the whole store, and she had been brimming with delight, so of course he had been delighted too. Domeric had had to whisper and remind her that she could only have dark colors, blacks and navies and greens and violets, and no jewels. While Sansa was fitting a gown with one of the shop assistants, the shopkeep had looked him in the eye.

“You are the luckiest young man in Westeros,” she said. Domeric smiled and thanked her.

_But I’m not lucky, _he thought. _I have the worst luck in the world._ _It’s wonderful now, but it will end when we get to His Grace, or even when we get to Runestone, and then it will be worse than it ever was before._

It scared him sometimes. It scared him to look her in the eye. Sometimes he thought his heart would give out, or his lungs would explode, all under the power of her gaze.

He felt like such a simpering fool. She could never know the half of it.

He had not realized just how lonely a person he had been until he had come to spend so much time with her. He supposed he had not noticed. Loneliness was normal. He was used to it, to knowing that whatever time he would enjoy with the Redforts or with Aunt Barbrey in Barrowton or the rest of his family at the Rillseat, he’d have to go back to the Dreadfort eventually, and be alone again. He always had one foot out the door, as if letting himself get in too deep would just make his inevitable departure all the more painful. But he could afford that with the Redforts and his Ryswell family. He could always go back and see them again. The Redfort and the Rillseat and even Barrow Hall were not his home. It was at the Dreadfort where he belonged, at that dark and lonely castle at the base of the Lonely Hills, on the banks of the Weeping Water. Dread and loneliness, that was his lot. Never weeping. Boltons made other men weep.

Sansa though, his princess - every moment he spent with her was a moment closer to their parting, to when he would have to give her back to her kingly brother, likely never to see her again. He couldn’t waste any of it. He had to relish all of it. He couldn’t ruin it. He couldn’t tell her about his father, not now. Then the spell would break. There was so much more to her than he’d seen during those few times he’d spoken to her at the Great Hall in Winterfell, or under the watchful eye of her septa. More than he could ever express in his poems. She was so much more than just the perfect lady with a perfect form and a perfect face. She was perfect for _him_, and she loved him. She loved him for him, unlike what Waymar said, or at least she said so. She liked to listen to him talk, because she said she liked to listen to him talk, because she said he was intelligent. By the gods, he had not talked so much to anyone as he did to her, ever. Not even to Mychel or to Robbie. Certainly not to his father or anyone else. Conversation was easy. He did not need to think of what to say to make her smile, and she would never think him silly, or stupid.

The things he’d dreamt of, what he wanted for his future when his father was gone, a castle full of light and laughter, the singers in the hall, the tourneys on the Weeping Water, she wanted those as well. The things that hurt him in his youth – she understood them. She saw. It was as if she had been there the whole time, listening inside his head while she had been living in his heart. The loss and regret when his younger siblings left the world. The desperation to flee south to chase his dreams, and, once faced with the disappointing reality of how the south saw the North, the heartsick yearning to go home. The feeling of being trapped in a castle full of fear, surrounded with countless scared servants. Of needing to wear a mask, all the damn time. Her mask was different, hers had a smile, but still – she _knew_. Sansa Stark had been lonely too.

Somehow she seemed to sense each and every one of his moods, to say exactly the right thing that would draw him back to earth whenever his thoughts would wander off and trap him where he didn’t want to be. She would look up at him and smile sweetly, or touch his arm and start humming a tune, and he could just forget for a little while. He didn’t have to think about how it was his fault that Ser Helman and so many good Northmen were gone and Harry and Robett were captives, how his father had betrayed their king and how all of his options looked to end with his head on a spike, or a noose around his neck. He could just let Sansa and her starry blue stare soothe him like a cold compress, the feeling of her arm in his anchoring him to the ground. He knew that when she was gone he would always feel alone, like something important had been lost, no matter how many of his friends or family surrounded him.

He could not imagine ever pledging himself to another woman. Not anymore. He hadn’t lied to her. He’d rip up the offers he’d been working on for Ysilla and Gillyanne Hunter and quietly let down Jeyne Redfort and her little girl’s dreams. When his father was finally gone, he’d take Walda’s eldest as his heir and never marry. His father’s children by Walda would be young enough to be Domeric’s own. The Dreadfort wouldn’t be as lonely as it had been before. Walda would make a fine companion in his dotage, and he’d be the best elder brother there ever was. He wouldn’t care if the rest of the North thought him a sword swallower like Lord Galbart. Better that than having to take a wife who wasn’t Sansa Stark.

_Aunt Barbrey can help me_, he thought. _She will show me how to cope. _Aye, Aunt Barbrey could. When she first out that he loved Catelyn Tully’s daughter she would be wroth, but Domeric was sure she cared for him enough to put that aside eventually. _She will understand once I talk to her. She loved Brandon and Brandon loved her but Lord Stark kept them apart. They couldn’t be together. Then Brandon died, and she was coming to love Willam, and Willam loved her, but then Willam died too. _Aunt Barbrey hadn’t taken on another husband, after Willam. She’d been alone for eighteen years. Aye, when the pain and loneliness became too much, he could go to Aunt Barbrey. She would understand. _Aunt Barbrey will always love me_. And then after Aunt Barbrey was gone, there was always Walda. Or the Wall.

They boarded the _Mistmarcher_ three days after arriving in Duskendale, seven days after he had taken her from King’s Landing. By the gods, had it truly only been seven days? He felt like he’d never spent a day without her by his side. Harrenhal and the Twins and Moat Cailin, they were all a thousand years ago, and the rest of his life from before the war was the distant past, shrouded in murky gloom. She was enchanting him, as if magic had truly returned to the world, the sweet singing of the Children of the Forest buzzing in his ears. He half expected to look down into the water and see mermaids lounging on the beach beneath the limestone cliffs, squishers clawing at the hull, and leviathans spouting water from their snouts off on the horizon. Or, he might look into the sky, shielding his eyes, only for the sun to be blocked out by Daenerys Targaryen flying out of the east on the back of her dragon, come to bring the realm to its knees and forge a peace once more.

There wasn’t room enough for the horse he’d bought at Rosby, so they sold it in town, but it couldn’t buy them better accommodations, for the ship was near full to bursting. Domeric had tried to haggle with the captain for a cabin or at least one proper bed, but Domeric had been too distracted by the captain’s three-pointed hat and ludicrous purple beard to properly articulate the limited Tyroshi he had. He turned to Sansa for help, but apparently, she only had High Valyrian. He wished Robbie were with them. Robbie was the one who was good with languages, with sailors and their ships. Aye, Robbie could have gotten her a bed. Domeric had chosen to study music and history instead. It was hard to try to talk about coin when all the foreign words you knew were for musical notation or snippets of love poems.

“Fret not, Ser Knight, I speak the Common Tongue.” So they spoke the Common Tongue. And then the captain showed him and Sansa and his horse to the quartermaster who brought them down below.

They weren’t given a bunk, or a pallet, or a cot, or a separate room. They weren’t even given a curtain or a screen. No, it was one hammock, tied to the ceiling by two hooks, with rings in the floor and rings in the wall to tie their things, among many hammocks and rings in the common hold for common travelers. His horse would have a better place.

It would not serve. Sansa deserved better. She was a princess, though he could not say as much. She deserved whatever she wanted. Already he’d let her free her hair and dress in the new gowns he’d bought her. All the Tyroshi had colorful hair, and most of the passengers were wearing fine clothes. She would fit right in.

He tried to protest to the Tyroshi quartermaster, but the green-whiskered man just shook his head and laughed. “This is your place.” He was angry. He felt helpless. He was supposed to protect her and see to her needs.

Domeric gulped. It was going to be a long journey to Gulltown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked this chapter a lot more the first few weeks it spent sitting on my computer. I debated cutting it but I decided that it was important to show the extent of how much of a sap Domeric is. And I didn't want to cut the moment with Bethany, which probably happened shortly before she died.
> 
> Domeric's moment with Myranda was nobody's fault. Some people just aren't compatible.
> 
> Who hurt you, Waymar Royce? Who hurt you?


	23. Domeric XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mistmarcher sails to Gulltown.
> 
> Warning for several types of squick and imaginary dubcon. And also a description of flaying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and the gentle heart are one thing,  
as the wise man puts in his verse,  
and each without the other would be dust,  
as a rational soul would be without its reason.  
Nature, when she is loving, takes  
Amor for her lord, and the heart for his home,  
in which sleeping he reposes  
sometimes a short, sometimes a longer day.  
Beauty may appear, in a wise lady,  
so pleasant to the eyes, that in the heart,  
is born the desire for pleasant things:  
which stays so long a time in that place:  
that it makes the spirit of Love wake,  
And likewise in a lady works a worthy man.
> 
> \- Dante Alighieri, 'Love and the gentle heart', La Vita Nuova

The first three nights on the _Mistmarcher_, Sansa was greensick.

Her face was pale and sweating, her eyes bloodshot and red. After he held her steady over the bucket as she heaved, she tried to cover her face. “I’m sorry, ser,” she said. “I couldn’t help – I never – ”

“Don’t be sorry, my lady,” he said. “Not your fault. I was greensick my first time on a ship. You’ll get your sea legs soon enough.” He pried her hands from her face and wiped her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. He pressed the tip of his nose to hers and moved to kiss her, but she pulled away.

“You can’t!” She protested. “I look ugly now, and the taste – ”

“I don’t care,” he countered. “You could never be ugly.” Then he pulled her back and buried his nose in his hair, and slanted her face up to his mouth.

The loss of fluid and food tired her out quickly. She curled up in the hammock, all balled up like a newborn babe. Then he began to push the hammock back and forth like a pendulum, and then she fell asleep. He crawled in beside her and faced away.

***

The fourth night, there was a storm. A true autumn maelstrom. Nasty and wild, as they approached Claw Isle. When the rain and the rocking started, she was balled up in the hammock.

“Ser?” She was afraid.

“Aye?”

“Would you hold me?”

He took a breath and pitied her quivering form. _I cannot deny those eyes. _“Aye. If you’d like.”

The _Mistmarcher _pitched and rolled, and he could have sworn that the waves had held them upside down for one terrifying moment. The hammocks in the hold swung back and forth, hither and yon, and it was a very good thing that everybody’s belongings were tied down fast. Gods, he hoped Rhaegar was all right. His big red beast of a friend hated closedness, hated the damp and the dark. _What about us? _Domeric thought, heart in his throat. _We’re not all right. The ship could wreck, and no one would ever know we were here. No one would ever find our bones. _He pictured himself sinking in the green sea, the black abyss dragging him downward. Above him was Sansa, her red hair swaying like seaweed, glowing in the surface light. She was floating near the surface, arms flailing, reaching, but then she stopped, and she was sinking towards him too.

_Would the Drowned God take us?_ He wondered. _Or would the old gods of the forest find us in the water?_ He didn’t want to find out. He didn’t want to die here, on the _Mistmarcher _surrounded by loud Tyroshi sailors and fat merchants from Pentos and Myr. He wanted to be buried under the earth, where the weirwood roots could reach his bones. In the crypts under the Dreadfort, next to Roger and his other siblings and his father too in time. _At least if I die, I will die holding her. _

“It will be all right,” he murmured, after the thunder cracked and her eyes went wide, the rain pelting the hull like a volley of arrows on a shield wall. He kissed her brow and nuzzled her nose, but he did not know if he was telling the truth. So he held her, and felt her heart flutter against his, and then he fell asleep.

***

On the fifth day, the storm died down, and on the fifth night, the sea was calm and the southern winds were fair. He held her again, and he did not want to stop. Was there ever a feeling more wonderful? More sublime?

There was the slide of her stockinged calves against the hose of his shins. The dip of her waist and the flare of her hips under the wool of her shift, in then out then in again. Her face against his neck, her breasts against his chest, the ridges of her spine. The way she would squeeze his hand and stroke his cheek and smile with the most honest affection. The warmth, radiating outward from her touch to him, only to reflect back to her and grow in the infinitesimal space between them both. The warmth, the love, its own independent light.

He had never felt so close to another person, so cared for, since the death of his mother.

“I love you,” he said. He touched the tip of his nose to hers, and kissed her on the forehead.

“And I love you,” she said back. She bunched her fingers in his shirt, and her hands told him, _I am yours and you are mine._

He never wanted it to end.

***

On the sixth night, he started to hurt. By the gods, he wished it would stop. The tightness in his throat, the throbbing in his chest, the stabs of knowledge that the wonderful feeling was going to go away. The wholeness, the warmth. _She_ was going to go away. He would have to give her back. He felt like he was Royce Redarm, only instead of ripping out the guts of his enemies, he’d plunged his hand into the open wound in his own breast and then pulled out his beating, bleeding heart.

He loved the sweet pink that would bloom on her cheeks whenever she would bat her eyes in expectation of a kiss; he loved the raw, chapped red of her lips when his kiss was done. He loved her gentle sighs, the way the pink would spread across her face, her ears, down her neck and her collarbone past the collar of her gown, the bloody red of her hair flowing out from her head. Pink and red – that is what she looked like when he kissed her. Pink and red, like the flayed man banner. She would be draped in his colors even when she was wearing nothing at all…

The gods had _made_ her for him, but they were cruel. He must needs return her to His Grace, but His Grace would give her away to another man, another man whose colors and cloak were not pink and red.

That was when the other pain started.

He thought of the flowers at Alyssa Arryn’s feet, the best flowers in the world. Orchids, pink of petal and red at the center. By now the Eyrie was cold; by now the flowers would be frozen. _Winter is coming_. He imagined bending down and plucking one of the frozen orchids, bringing it to his nose and watching the thin sheen of ice melt away under his hot breath. The pink petals glistened with drops of dew. He lowered the flower to his lips and licked at the red center, searching for its sweet nectar with his tongue.

But he would never taste it. Aye, that was why it hurt. He would never taste it, and so there was soreness, aching, straining. Pain with no chance of relief. Torture.

He bit the inside of his cheek and clenched his jaw.

It was the second worst pain he’d ever experienced in his life. Before, that title had gone to the blow he’d taken to the head when he and Mychel had been practicing the art of wrestling in full plate in the Redfort yard. His ears had rung like the bells in the Motherhouse of Maris and he couldn’t read or step into the sun for the entire week. Mychel had retreated to the sept and had only stopped praying and fasting when Maester Jeron had confirmed beyond doubt that he would make a full recovery.

It wasn’t the worst pain in his life though. That was when he had returned to the Dreadfort, and his father had led him down below.

“You are a man now,” his father had said, Maester Uthor in tow. “A man of House Bolton. And a knight as well, it seems.” They stopped at a room with nothing but a single torch, a table, and a chair with leather straps. After the door had been barred behind them, his father had bid him remove his shirt and sit, and Maester Uthor strapped him to the chair.

“I will show you today what it means to be a man of House Bolton.” His father had drawn his flaying knife then. It was shiny and sharp and very clean. “This is what we do.” His father had made a small incision, not more than three inches long, on his upper arm. “Keep still,” he’d said. “I expect you not to cry out.”

Then his father had pulled the skin up and peeled, just an inch or two. “You must remember who you are.” He had to clench his jaw and bite the inside of his cheek till it bled, and his arms had chafed against the leather straps, but he had not screamed, and he had not cried. He had hardly moved his face. Then his father had watched Maester Uthor stitch him up and apply that special secret cream which would spare his skin from any scars.

“I am pleased with you, my son.”

That pain was worse. But this was still very bad. Sublime torture. It was everything he could not to reposition her with his hands and begin to rut against her with his cock, to start grinding bone on bone. He’d never wished for a septa to come and scold him so much in his life.

_Septa Frenelica at the Redfort is the least comely woman I’ve ever seen. She is tall and thin but her back is stooped with a hump. Her warty nose is wide and hooked like a vulture’s beak, and her veiny fingers are bony and clawed like a vulture’s talons. Her wrinkled face looks as if she is always smelling carrion and rotting meat. There is nothing to hide beneath her septa’s robes._

He is dressed in shining silver plate, the rainbow sword etched proudly on his breast. He is a Warrior’s Son. Following the scent of incense smoke and the trancelike tinkle of bells, he makes his way to the sept to pray, to kneel before the Warrior. He pushes open the door and sees her kneeling before the Maiden’s altar, lighting the Maiden’s candle and chanting the Maiden’s hymn. Her septa’s veil is just a bit too far back on her head, her red hairline just peeking out, and her septa’s robes are not shapeless enough. He tugs on her sleeve.

“Septa,” he whispers, his voice bouncing between the seven walls. “I must make my confession. Would you know my sins?”

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no! _He was a knight. He could not indulge in such ignoble thoughts. Not about his Princess, the sister of his king, the future bride of some other man. To do so was shameful. The risk was too great. Especially with her right there.

_This is why they don’t send knights to rescue maidens, _he thought. _Because once they’re rescued, they’re never maidens anymore. _Aye, they shouldn’t send knights. They should send warrior women, like Jonquil Darke, the Serpent in Scarlet, Good Queen Alysanne’s sworn shield. Or the Mormonts. The Princess’ maidenhead would not be in danger if His Grace had sent one of the Mormont sisters to rescue her instead.

_Maege Mormont is short and stocky, with a thick waist and calloused hands. Her hair is stringy and gray, and her tongue is as rough as her face. Maege Mormont might have a title, but she is no proper lady. Beneath her leathers and mail are sagging teats and the muscles of a man._

He is standing on the deck of a longship, one knee hiked up, foot pressed against the rail. The white skeleton hand gleams in the sunlight, on a great billowing sail of red. He is a Drumm of Old Wyk. His dark hair is streaming behind him in the sea wind, and his white linen shirt is sticking to his sweaty chest. The Drowned God roars in his ears, and the salt spray tickles his tongue. There it is, a white-on-green gem in the brilliant blue – his prize. Bear Island.

She is waiting for him on the beach, in a short tunic and leathers and mail. She raises her mace, he draws his axe, and they begin to dance. It is not long before they are both breathing hard, faces flushed and sweating. He knocks the mace away and pins her to the ground. _You cannot defeat me, woman. Submit._

“Yield!” she says, “I yield. Come into my castle, captain.”

_No. _He had to stop. It wasn’t right. She didn’t belong to him. So he continued to hurt. He could bear it. He had borne worse.

***

By the seventh night, he couldn’t bear it. Not anymore. It was too much. The love. The need. The pain. She couldn’t go away. She had to be his. How could he ever give her back? Law and honor required that he return her to the man who owned her, his liege lord, their king. She belonged to her brother, but Robb Stark didn’t value her, didn’t treasure her, didn’t _love_ her like Domeric did. Robb Stark saw her as a thing. By the gods, Robb Stark let the Kingsguard knights _beat her with their gauntlets on and strike her with the flats of their swords. _Robb Stark let King Joffrey stick a crossbow in her face. It took no stretch of the imagination that Robb Stark would sell her like a horse for some alliance, and she would be lost to him forever.

He was angry.

_By all the ancient laws of the First Men, she is yours, _a voice in his head said. _You stole her. She struggled. She submitted. She went with you. She is yours and no one can take her away._ It was a pleasing thought, but it wasn’t true, and he tried to banish it from his mind. He wasn’t some wildling from beyond the Wall, or a Moon Brother or Painted Dog from the mountain peaks. He was a knight. A nobleman. Civilized, restrained. A man of honor. _You’re more like them than you think, _the voice said. _There’s not a drop of Andal blood in your veins. You are a son of the First Men, thorough and pure. Your gods are not the gods of knighthood and chivalry, of crystal lights and incense smoke and oils. Your gods are the gods of the blood and the wild. Of the forest. Of the trees. She’s yours. Come before the trees and your union will be blessed._

He hummed low in his chest, and then hot blood rushed into his loins. He could see it. Himself, a wildling, night-dark hair tangled and tumbling down his back, bloody acorn paste smeared like paint under his eyes and on his lips. Around his neck are tied the finger bones of his enemies. He collects them. They’re his trophies. There is a string of red fox pelts around his shoulders over a cloak of faded red wool, bound together by a braid of human skin. His armor is not plate and mail, and it does not shine; it is boiled leather and bronze scales, and it is carved with ancient runes. He’s sitting atop his horse – his tall red courser – and he’s riding bareback. On his back are a quiver and a bow, and on his hip are a knife and a hunting horn.

He sees her there, by the running water, near the forest’s edge. He stops his horse and stares. Her hair is red – she’s kissed by fire – and it’s his lucky day. She’s a peasant girl, dressed in a brown roughspun gown that’s too tight, too short, and an apron as white as snow. She’s washing linens in the stream, and she is singing a song. She hears the horse whinny and looks up. He meets her gaze, and her blue eyes shine like the stars above. She smiles. He smiles too, and his white teeth are stained red from the bloody paste. She drops the white linen in the red clay dirt and then she stands and flees. She runs, runs, _runs_ for the forest. For the trees. And she begins to laugh.

He watches her run. He gives her a head start. The chase isn’t fun if it’s too easy. He blows the horn. _I’m coming._

It’s not long before he reaches her. He’s on a horse, after all. They’re in a clearing, in a weirwood grove, and all the gods are watching. All the trees have wicked smiles. He leaps off his horse and grabs her by the arm. He yanks her to his chest, and she yanks back, but then she leans in, and she keeps laughing. He whips off his cloak and drapes it around her, and then he claims her mouth. He lays her down on her back and kneels, one hand twined with hers, the other reaching for his knife. With one swift stroke her dress and her apron are torn in twain. Her red hair is fanned out above her head, like weirwood leaves, and her lips are red, like a weirwood’s mouth. Her face is white, and her skin is white, like weirwood bark. Her breasts are white, and their tips are red, and down below is more red hair, a second set of wet red lips. Another weirwood face. She belongs to his gods. She belongs to him. _You are mine_.

His breeches are tight so he breaks their chains of string. He is free. Farewell bronze scales. Goodbye boiled leather. He has to feel her everywhere. He kisses her lips and then she sighs his name. His gods are speaking to him. He offers himself up to them. He gives his gift to the weirwood’s mouth, and his gods kiss him with their blessing. When the sacrifice is over, he withdraws. He can smell it. The salt and the iron, the seed and the blood. The sweat. He wipes it on his hand, and he gives it to the tree.

Domeric opened his eyes and froze. _No_, he thought, hands of shame choking him. _I couldn’t, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry._ He turned in the hammock and brought his hand to the damp front of his breeches, and the tips of his fingers came away shining in the dark. He sniffed them. Iron. _Oh_. So it hadn’t been him. Or it might have, he’d felt it. It didn’t matter. He would need to change anyway, and he was still sorry.

His eyes adjusted. Gently he shook Sansa awake. She would want to wake up, to change as well. When she rose and felt and saw she flushed purple. She brought her hands over her face and started to whimper.

“I’m so sorry, ser,” she said. “I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault, it’s _vile – ”_

“Don’t be sorry,” he replied, whispering. He lifted her chin and the tips of his fingers left four red prints under her jaw. _Mine._ “Not your fault. Not vile. It’s all right. Just. Go and clean yourself up – ”

But she only shook her head wildly and covered her face again. He tied the corners of his blanket on the hammock hooks to allow her some privacy from the rest of the passengers. She fumbled around for a clean shift and rags and disappeared behind the blanket. After he was clean as well, he told her he was going above deck.

“I cannot sleep,” he said. She merely nodded, and he fled up the stairs.

The night was cold, and the wind was colder. _Good. _He could think.

He needed her. She had to stay with him. _Please don’t go. I don’t want to be alone again. _But she had to go, didn’t she? She was more than just the best girl in the world, with the sweetest smiles and the loveliest laughter. She was a princess. She was a pawn, a piece in the game of thrones. She would be sold like a horse, just like Mother. It had always been her fate.

_I hold the piece, _he thought. When he’d ridden out to find her, he’d never sought such power in his hands. He’d only wanted her free…

He clutched at the windworn rail of the deck so hard that the splinters nearly pierced his palms. _I can’t just give her away. She said she wants to be my lady wife and bear my children and live in my castle. She said she loves me. I have to try. I can’t give up. I have to think of a way…_

He considered for a moment the path she wanted them to pursue. Raise the Vale for the King in the North and crush the Lannisters. He’d told her that in order for that to happen, she’d likely need to be married to seal the pact. That was true. There could be no other way to raise the Vale. _Harry Hardyng or Roland Waynwood or Lyonel Corbray._ Harry was an arse, but Domeric had tolerated him before. Now he wanted nothing more to take his fist and punch in Harry’s smirking face, break his perfect nose and smash his pearly white teeth. Roland Waynwood was gallant and affable, but he looked like the sketch of Brandon Stark Aunt Barbrey kept in her jewel chest. _No Stark would ever give her to me. _He imagined stringing Roland up on one of those Tyroshi contraptions so oft described in the history books, turning the gear that pulled the chain as Roland choked, choked, choked. Lord Lyonel? _He would be easy. I have coin and Ser Lyn wants coin. Mychel could arrange a meeting. We could help each other. No one would need to know._

Stop. Stop. He needed to stop. _Harry and Roland and Lord Lyonel have done me no wrong._ Bile rose in his throat. _I am disgusting._ _A beast in human skin. _Besides, even if they raised the Vale, there was still no way they could prevail. All the swords in the Vale numbered less than fifty thousand. The Reach had seventy thousand, the West had at least twenty thousand, and the Crownlands still more. _There is no way we can win. Stannis is our enemy and Dorne has shut its doors._ It would not matter if the Vale marched and His Grace sold her to Harry or Roland or Lord Lyonel. The Crown would crush them, her husband would hang, they _all_ would hang, and she’d be given to someone else.

And if the Crown did not crush them, and if Lady Lysa finally defended her blood, the Kingdom of the North prevailed and Sansa did not need to be sold, His Grace would never choose to reward her to the likes of Domeric Bolton. No, it would be to Smalljon Umber or to Harry Karstark. Good and leal men. _Harry is my friend, but he would not be anymore. _Domeric was tall and strong, but not as tall or strong as those two. He could never win.

But perhaps Sansa was right. Perhaps her brother would be so grateful to him for bringing her back that his Princess would be his reward. _Unlikely, _he thought. _She is a Stark and I am a Bolton. His Grace would never do so. And if he did, he would be a fool. _She needed to be available for the Vale alliance. She would have to be sold to someone, elsewise the North would lose, and they would all hang.

_I don’t have to hang, _he thought. _I can die in battle, with her favor on my breast and her name on my lips, and the rubies of my armor flying before the sun. I’ll take a wound to the chest and die of a bleeding heart, just like Rhaegar Targaryen. _And then if she still lived, she would have to marry someone else… Someone like Willas Tyrell, or Lancel Lannister. He might as well have just left her in King’s Landing and never gone to Duskendale.

No. No. No. He could not let that happen. They had to be the winning side, and he had to keep her. It had to be forever.

Domeric looked into the sea. The water was a twisted black mirror, his reflection shifting with the waves. When he looked down he saw his father, and he heard his father’s voice. _I am pleased with you, my son. You must remember who you are._ _You have to remember your name. _

_What’s my name? _he asked himself. _Domeric Bolton, _Father said_. A fine Bolton name, as old as the Red Kings and all our traditions. I named you. I am pleased with you, my son. You have done me proud._

And he had, hadn’t he? He would never be called ‘more Redfort than Dreadfort’ if he made the choice his Father would choose.

Winterfell, Winterfell, he had a claim on Winterfell! He held the key to the North in his hands. He could achieve the dreams of his fathers, rise higher than any Bolton had since the Age of Heroes. _She told me I’m her hero. She wants me to take her home._

_It would not only be for our House. I would see you happy, my boy._

The Dreadfort, the Dreadfort, he’d have to take her to the Dreadfort. They couldn’t stop in Gulltown. Not if he was going to take her home. Lord Royce and Lord Horton could never know what he had done. The _Mistmarcher _would stop in White Harbor. Aye, it would only be another week. They could sail over the Bite and dock in White Harbor and ride hard for Bolton lands.

_That won’t work, _he thought. _I’d never make it past White Harbor. She would want to stay the night at New Castle and call on the Manderlys, but Lord Wyman is not Ser Wylis. He’d have me knifed in my sleep. And if we didn’t stay in the city, we’d have to pass through the Hornwood, and the Manderlys hold the Hornwood._

Ramsay, Ramsay, Ramsay, _why_? Why couldn’t Ramsay have been born noble and true, sound of mind and sharp of wit? How could anyone be so _stupid _as to rape a lady of a noble house? Damn that business with Lady Donella and her fingers. _The Manderlys would kill us all._ And if somehow Domeric evaded them, when he finally carried Sansa through the Dreadfort’s gates, it would be Ramsay there to welcome them both, acting as lord in Father’s stead.

_He will not come within ten leagues of her. He will not come within ten leagues of me._

There had been a babe, pushed into the world hardly a year after Domeric’s own birth. Bertram, the crypt said. Around Ramsay’s age. Domeric didn’t remember him. He died in the cradle while Aunt Barbrey came to visit. _Why couldn’t Bertram have lived instead of Ramsay? Or Roger? Roger would be near Sansa’s age now, or thereabouts. Or any of the others. A true brother of mine would never have been as stupid as Ramsay. He would have never risked the wrath of the Hornwood, or the merman’s vengeance. He would have saved Winterfell from burning and nobody would hate us. We would have safe passage through the North and then when we rode through the gates, my brother would call for a feast, take us to the godswood and see us wed before the tree, and I could love her in my own bed._

But it was no use wishing for Roger or any long dead brother of his blood. There was only Ramsay. He couldn’t take her home.

_I could take her to Barrowton. Aunt Barbrey would shelter me. Or to Grandfather’s hall. Grandfather always wanted a Stark marriage for his blood. _But that wouldn’t work either. The Ironmen controlled the Moat and Torrhen’s Square. He wouldn’t risk traveling through territory crawling with squids.

_I could stop at Gulltown and find a raven and write Aunt Barbrey for help and then make for White Harbor. She could send me swords to escort us back. _But Aunt Barbrey needed those swords, because the North was crawling with squids. He couldn’t ask her to let them go. It was the same with Grandfather.

_I could go back below deck and have her right now, and then when we get to Runestone, I could tell Lord Royce what I had done. He would think poorly of it but he would march us before the tree himself to make things right. Then I could write to Father and to His Grace and tell the whole truth. His Grace could not blame me for a mistake he made himself. Father would take care of the rest, and I wouldn’t care. I hate Robb Stark. I would dance on his corpse._

But he had to care. After the rest was taken care of, she would hate him forever, if she found out. And if she never found out, she might always suspect. And if she did not suspect, he would have to live with the knowledge that it was because of him that her last brother was dead. He would have to live with a secret, a lie. Sansa loved Robb Stark. Domeric would not be the one who took him away from her. Not when he himself knew the raging emptiness that always followed whenever he descended to the crypts and ran his fingers over Roger’s name. No. He would not be the cause of her pain. He could not risk having her find out from someone else, but if he told her, she would hate him then too. The spell would break, and in its place a curse would fall. It all would end.

_Lord Horton would know. He wouldn’t suspect. He’d know. He knows me and he knows Father. He would tell Lord Royce. _Domeric knew exactly what Lord Horton would say.

_I thought you had honor, boy. It was on my honor that I knighted you. It seems that I was wrong. You are no true knight._

_Everything I have ever worked towards and tried to make of myself would be gone… _

He never wanted to be like the rest of them, anyway. Father and all the Boltons before. Cold-blooded torturers and men without honor. Indifferent to the wails of women and the bleating of the weak. _I am better, _he’d told himself. _I will be better. _And he had made himself better. At least, the world had thought him so.

_She named me a true knight, but I am no better after all. _He clenched his jaw and gripped the rail. A bite pierced the soft inside of his cheek, and a sharp thing pierced his palm and stuck. It was a splinter of wood. With his other hand he pulled the splinter out. There was blood in his mouth. _There is blood on my hands…_

No. No. No. He could not let that happen. _She named me a true knight. She called me her hero. She would not love me if I were not those things. _Better she be given to someone else than start hating him. _I have to be better than them. Not just for my honor, but also for her._

What could he do? _I could tell His Grace of Father’s treason when I return her to him. I would keep my head and my seat and perhaps even her. _And then what? Robbie and Uncle Roose and Ronnel Stout and the rest were all at Harrenhal. They would stand with the Dreadfort men unless they got further direction from Barrowton or the Rillseat.

_Could I truly stand across the lines from them? What if something happened? How could I return to Aunt Barbrey, or to Grandfather’s hall? Kinslayer_, they would call him. They would be right. He could never go back. He would be never be welcome in the homes that he wished he could call home again. _They would hate me. And I would hate me too._

Domeric pictured all those times he and Robbie and Uncle Roose and Ronnel Stout had practiced the tilts with tourney lances, smashing shield after shield after shield. In his mind the lances’ blunted tips sharpened in the gleaming sun, and then Domeric was piercing Ronnel Stout’s gorget, and Ronnel fell, the chevrony russet and gold of his surcoat staining red. Then Uncle Roose was riding up to him, and then Domeric lanced him through a chink in his armor at the armpit, blood spurting out of the wound. Finally came Robbie, charging at him with thundering speed, and then the point of Domeric’s lance went through his heart, his cousin’s red courser dragging the corpse on the ground by a foot stuck in the stirrup.

“My champion!” Sansa called, and when she kissed him, there was blood on his tongue.

No. No. No. He could not let that happen.

_I could write to Grandfather and Aunt Barbrey, and then the barrowknights and Rillmen could leave Harrenhal. They could take the Manderly men with them. It would be the whole North against my father._

And then what? He would return the Lord of the Dreadfort and have to explain to Steelshanks Walton’s daughters why their father was dead. He would have to tell Ben Bones that his boys Barn and Byrd had been killed in fighting he’d caused.

_Old Lord Overton’s son is with Father too. He saved me from my folly. He told me about Ramsay. I owe him my life. How could I repay him like this? And my smallfolk, my smallfolk, I have to think of my smallfolk. I would hardly have any left if it came to that. A true knight’s duty is not just to his liege lord and to his king. He has to protect his smallfolk too…_

Domeric was back a thousand years ago at Moat Cailin, after the Battle of the Green Fork, before they learned His Grace had been crowned. He had asked Father about why there hadn’t been any opportunity for him to prove his valor in the charge.

“You complain for yourself,” Father had said. “You think not of our men. You think only of glory. Do you think our men want glory?”

“Some do,” Domeric had said. “Most only want to go home.”

“Home to what?”

“Their farms. Their wives and children.”

“Their wives and children.” Father had stopped peeling his grapes then. “I will tell you of something that you did not see. It happened at the Dreadfort the last day the banners were to leave. You were in the Vale. That day, a young tanner and a farmer’s daughter came to me for permission to be wed. There were many such couples those weeks. The men wanted someone to fight for, to return to. I granted them all permission, of course. I care not for the marriages of the smallfolk so long as they come to seek my consent and pay the fee in accordance with our laws and go before the gods in accordance with theirs, and the groom can support any children. No power blocs can form between a tanner and a farmer’s daughter. They are no threat to me.

“The farmer’s wife was there. When the petitions were nearly done she begged me leave to speak. She said, _My lord, I am the mother of this bride, but I have been a war wife too. When last you marched my husband and I stood here in your hall seeking your consent to wed. After you granted your leave, my husband followed you, and when the war was done, you returned him to me. I am a merchant’s daughter. My father left his daughters in Karstark lands, Umber and Manderly too. My sisters were all widowed then, but you brought my husband home. Lord Bolton, I beg, do the same for my daughter. Bring my goodson home to her.”_

Then Father looked Domeric straight in the eye. “You would have made not only that girl, but countless other girls I saw wed less than two moons’ past, widows for your glory. You have no duty to glory. You have a duty to them. I have a duty to them. My smallfolk. They feed us, we protect them. It is our smallfolk who keep House Bolton at the Dreadfort, not the Starks of Winterfell. I have no duty to the smallfolk of Karstark, or Umber, or Manderly, or of Cerwyn, or Hornwood, or of the mountain clans. I have a duty to mine." Father had paused and showed his teeth. "A peaceful land,"

"A quiet people."

“Do you see now, my son?”

“Yes, Father.” There was no arguing there.

How could he tell that woman that her young daughter was a widow? How could he face that girl? How could he tell them why?

_Because I wanted to marry my lady love, that was why. Because I am a highborn and I thought my love meant more to me than yours did to you, was worth more than the lives of thousands of others. _

How could he say that?

He couldn’t, that’s how. Even if the North turned on the Dreadfort, the Dreadfort stood with the Crown, and there would be more war. He could not see good Northmen killing other Northmen, or dying in the south. He could not see more farms burn or more crops rotting in the fields. He could not see thousands bleed and starve to death to soothe the yearnings of his heart. Or the aching in his loins. He could not be Rhaegar Targaryen. But he wouldn’t have to.

_We would all hang anyway, even if the Vale were raised. There has to be a peace. There can be no more fighting. We cannot let more smallfolk die. And when we have a peace, she will be sold away. And I cannot offer my hand for peace because I know what Father would do. When His Grace died, everyone would know. And she would blame me._

A light on the coast flashed in the distance. Hope. Yes. There could be another answer.

_I could be a hostage. When I return her, I could tell him of Father’s treason and beg His Grace to bend the knee in exchange for peace in the North. I would not have her but I could see her. She could visit me in my cell. It would not be the worst. There would be no more fighting. I could save my honor. She could still see me as good._

It was a good plan. House Bolton wouldn’t move against the Starks so long as His Grace held the heir to the Dreadfort. Neither would House Dustin or House Ryswell. His father wouldn’t do that.

_Yes he would. _

_He has Walda. He has Ramsay. I’m expendable._

_Yes he would. _

Domeric touched that spot on his arm and looked into the black mirror again. The rippling water had shattered his reflection into a thousand shards, and then a patch of seafoam floated over it, as if he had been trapped under a snowbank. _She has ripped me apart,_ he thought. _She sank her fangs into me and ripped me apart._

He ran a hand over his face to make sure it was still in one piece. When he got to his jaw, seven days’ worth of scratchy whiskers greeted him.

_How ugly I am, _he thought. _What is inside shows plain on my face._

He heaved over the side of the deck. A small hand grasped his arm by his elbow. He flinched and whirled around.

“Domeric?” It was Sansa. He only stared. It hurt to look at her. “You have been up here a long while.”

“My lady.” His mouth tasted of bile. “I have been thinking.”

Her eyes were searching him. She wanted to know what he was thinking. “About the war.”

She nodded and pressed herself against him, winding her arms around his neck. He felt the tension leave his shoulders and sighed. Then she started kissing his jaw, up to the corners of his mouth. He stiffened and pulled back. “My lady, there is bile – ”

She just pressed closer again. “I don’t care.” Then she kissed him, and when it was done, she took him by the hand, and started to sing softly. It was the Mother’s hymn.

Sansa led him down to the common hold. She got into their hammock and pulled him down beside her. She wound her arms around his neck again and he buried his nose in her hair.

_“Gentle Mother, font of mercy…”_

_Mercy, _he thought. _Gods have mercy on me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was another largely interior Domeric chapter, because Domeric is a very interior person.
> 
> You know someone loves you if they are willing to make out with you when your mouth tastes like vomit.
> 
> Domeric isn't so different from Roose and Ramsay is he? A good day for a Bolton is going out for a hunt and having sex beneath a tree. (But only if you catch the fox and your courser doesn't come up lame.)
> 
> There are a lot of holes in Domeric's logic in this chapter, which I am aware of, but he's not exactly thinking clearly. He really needed that hug.
> 
> I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas. See you all in 2020.


	24. Robert II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harrenhal receives some distressing news from the capital, and Robert conducts some business from the Rills and Barrowton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, a (faked) suicide will be mentioned in this chapter.

Lord Bolton had received a bird from the capital and called them into the Hunter’s Hall for a meeting. Sansa Stark was dead. It was devastating news.

The way she had died was simply awful. She’d been kept in the highest room of the tallest tower of Maegor’s Holdfast of the Red Keep. She had been so lonely, so hated, so despondent after all hope of rescue or ransom or King Robb’s victory had been lost, that soon after the Tyrells arrived in King’s Landing, she’d flung herself out the window and impaled herself on the spikes of the dry moat below. Then the Lannisters tarred her naked body and put it up on the walls, leaving her red hair free to fly. The return of her bones was conditional on unconditional surrender.

How cruel the gods were. Sansa Stark, a princess once to be a queen, was now just another beautiful lady whose despair and loveliness and death would be the stuff of songs, like Ashara Dayne.

That was if the report was true. If the Crown was lying, then they had killed her and were covering it up.

Everybody had been affected. Ser Slower’s bushy walrus mustache had quivered and he’d looked at the floor. He had two daughters not much older than Sansa Stark had been. Robert had looked right at him and known that Ser Slower was thinking of his girls. Wynafryd and Wylla. Women grown, flowered and ready to wed, but always his girls. Robert himself had a lump in his throat. Beth had as many namedays as Sansa Stark did. Four-and-ten, near on five-and-ten. Fuck. That had nearly made him cry, picturing Beth’s broken body bleeding on a spike. Or Branna. Robert would have ripped apart the world to help Beth and Branna. Roose was imagining Beth and Branna too, and Ronnel his own little daughter Wilma. Robert didn’t know Ser Kyle that well, but he was about the right age to have a little daughter, or at least a sister, and he’d had downcast eyes as well. Besides, he was a Cerwyn man, and the Cerwyn men were well known at Winterfell. Ser Kyle had probably known Sansa Stark.

Even Lord Bolton had looked mildly upset. His Grace and Ser Edmure should have listened to Dom. Or Lord Bolton should have just allowed Dom to play the hero and lead his mission. Then this fucking awful thing might not have happened, and Robb Stark wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that his last sister – his last sibling – was gone.

Robert hadn’t known Robb Stark. He’d met him maybe twice at Moat Cailin. But Robert knew what it was like to have two sisters. All the times he’d japed at Robb Stark’s expense – he would have to stop. Fuck. Robert wouldn’t jape about a man who’d lost both his sisters. He didn’t want to imagine the pain. He never wanted to feel what Father felt when Aunt Beth was lost to them forever. Dom hadn’t agreed with His Grace’s choices, but by Robert’s lights it was more complicated. Highborn hostages were treated well, and a rescue mission could go wrong. His Grace might have been throwing away good men and his sister’s life when the Lannisters tried to take her back. What if they had reached the Red Keep and gotten her out only to be slaughtered on the Kingsroad or in the woods? That would have been hard to live with, knowing you had given the all clear. After the Blackwater it had been all but fated that she would be sold like a horse to make a peace. She wouldn’t have been happy, but she would have been safe.

That’s what Robert would have thought. But he would’ve been wrong, just like Robb Stark had been wrong, and Dom had been right. And now when the Lannisters sent Dom back to meet up with them at the Twins in chains, someone would have to tell him the news that would break his heart. No, that wasn’t right. Dom was a prisoner, and the Lannisters would have wanted to demoralize a Northern prisoner. They would have already told him, and when Dom met up with the Northerners at the Twins he’d be the shell of himself.

What would have happened if Lord Bolton had let Dom go? Perhaps Dom would have been a prisoner still, or perhaps he would have died. Or perhaps Dom would have reached King’s Landing in time, would be back on his way here by now, with Sansa Stark in tow, and when they got to the Twins His Grace would have been so grateful that he’d grant Dom his heart’s desire to marry his princess. There could have been a double wedding with Ser Edmure and his Frey. But that could never be now. It was no use wondering.

Would Dom want to write a song for Sansa Stark? Perhaps not. Maybe it would hurt too much. Dom didn’t know how Robert knew about the torch he’d held for the princess, but Robert had known all the same. Dom had told him, and Dom hadn’t remembered. They’d been out carousing with Don and Young Rod to celebrate Dom’s knighthood and Young Rod’s nameday. Young Rod had boasted he could drink the new ser under the table, and Dom had accepted the challenge. Robert had watched with bated breath, because everyone knew Lord Bolton _never_ let Dom drink anything but hippocras and weak ale. Perhaps Lord Bolton had loosened up, or Redfort had taught him in the Vale? Robert had been surprised - Dom had matched Young Rod cup for cup, and he hadn’t known just how soused Dom was until they’d gotten back to the family apartments at the Rillseat. Poor bugger had sat straight on his horse as if completely sober and had said nary a word the whole ride back.

Then they’d gotten back to Dom’s chambers, and Robert had chided him for refusing all the girls who’d mooned over his singing, and then he’d started babbling on and on and on about Sansa Stark.

They were so beautiful, those things Dom said. He must have been quoting some of his own poems. They were better than that famous play from Volantis Robert had had to read as a boy, the one about the Tiger’s son and the Elephant’s daughter that he’d had to translate it from High Valyrian to Lyseni. Then to Tyroshi. Then to Braavosi. Then to Ghiscari. And then to the Common Tongue. And then he’d had to memorize it. He’d known every word of that sappy piece of mummery, and the things Dom had to say about Sansa Stark had touched his heart in a way that Vylio Shaesperys’ words never had.

So the next morning, when Dom had woken up with a pounding headache and dry mouth and shuffled off to break his fast with no memory of the night prior, Robert had sought an audience in Grandfather’s solar. A Stark marriage for his blood, that’s what Grandfather had wanted all along. And it would have made Dom so happy too! Grandfather had been pleased with Robert that morning, and had penned a letter to Lord Bolton. But Robert had never heard what happened to that letter, and then Lady Sansa had been betrothed to Prince Joffrey.

They’d both been visiting Aunt Barbrey in Barrowton when King Robert Baratheon and the rest had come riding down the Kingsroad from Winterfell. Aunt Barbrey had given Branna leave from her duties to go ride out with them and try to spot the column. It had taken them a few days to catch them, but when they did, it had been unmistakable. They rode up to the top of a hill, the three of them, and Robert had switched horses with Branna so she could stand taller in the stirrups to see. Baratheon blacks and Lannister crimsons snapped in the wind, and there was so much gold, gold, gold.

“Do you think if we rode up to meet them, Lord Stark would take a meal with us?” Branna had said. “We could share our bread with Lady Arya and Lady Sansa and they could be our friends. And then one day I could go to the capital and serve as one of Lady Sansa’s ladies. To think, Robbie, me, one of the Queen’s ladies! Wouldn’t that be grand?” Branna hadn’t let him answer. She’d just turned to look at Dom instead. “Dommie, you’ve met her, aye? What’s she like? The Lady Sansa?”

“Aye, Branna, I’ve met her,” Dom had said, smiling sadly as he had stared at the long line of wagons and wheelhouses and mounted men. “She’s the perfect lady. She’ll be a true queen.”

“I don’t think Lord Stark would want to bother with us,” Robert had cut in. “Let’s just eat here and watch.” Branna had been annoyed, but Dom had looked relieved.

Perhaps Robert shouldn’t have said anything that day.

There was a hand on his shoulder. “Robert?” It was Ronnel.

“Aye?”

“The meeting’s over.”

“Aye.”

“Are you all right, lad?” Ronnel’s hand was squeezing.

“Aye, Ronnel. I will be.”

“Would you like to chat a bit?” Did he? It might help.

“No, Ronnel, no thank you. Not now. Later.” Robert knew what he wanted to do.

“Where’re you off to now then, lad?”

Robert looked into Ronnel’s face. Wrinkly smile lines were just beginning to show around his kinsman’s mouth at nine-and-twenty, though he wasn’t smiling now. Fuck, when did Ronnel get so _old?_ Aye, it would be good to chat with Ronnel later.

“The godswood,” Robert said. “To pray. Then to the library. To write.” Robert exhaled. “I want to tell my sisters I love them.”

***

“How’s the inquest going?”

Robert was picking at his salted pork when Ronnel came down to sit next to him in the hall in the section of the castle the Rillmen and barrowknights were sharing. “It’s going. Got through another hundred men today.”

“And how do you question a hundred men in a day?”

“Groups of ten. All under the same command. Goes fast enough.”

“Anything new?”

“No. The Glover and Tallhart men know nothing. One Karstark rider spoke with him. It’s only the Cerwyn men who really witnessed anything. He was in the rearguard and became the van. Then the Fossoways came on them, and he engaged a green-apple Fossoway knight. The knight led him away, but it looked like he was winning.”

“And Condon and the rest of the commanders let you keep questioning the men?”

“Oh, aye, they’re ‘letting’ me. Condon’s scared shitless of Lord Bolton. Thinks he’ll be flayed for letting the Darling of the Dreadfort get captured. No matter what I say. The rest of them, the Karstarks and Tallharts and Glovers, they’re following Condon’s lead. And it’s not as if any of them have their liege lord to stand up to Lord Bolton for them.”

“They don’t know it’s not Lord Bolton who’s asking for this? That it’s Lady Barbrey and Lord Rodrik?”

“No. But if they did, would it truly matter? They’re all suspicious of us for marrying into the Dreadfort. Not the lords. The men. And you know the barrowknights. Better than I do. Disciplined. Professional. And fresh, just like the Rillmen. The rest of the men here, they’re scared of that. They all look so tired compared to us. And we’ve most all the horse, too. They don’t want to cross us. You and me and Roose, I mean. They know we speak for Aunt Barbrey and Grandfather Rodrik. And they think, oh, one word to them, or to Lord Bolton, if they don’t tell me what they know, it’ll be the skin off their back.”

Robert took a swig of ale. “I don’t like it. Being lumped in with him. No reason to be scared of us. I mean, in a fight, aye, on the field, aye, I’ve no quarrel with a healthy dose of fear, but in a castle? While we’re fighting the same war? For the same king? No. No. Ronnel, I don’t like it. The way they look at me. I’m not… I’m not Dom, aye? I don’t like it when men flinch when I look at their face. Like I’m about to call for a flogging or a beating. Or a flaying. Not that he does, but, he’s… he’s… used to it. Thinks it’s normal. By the gods, he rides about looking like a bloody skeleton out of a night terror. Me, I wear the horse’s head, I’m used to the Rillmen liking me, aye? The Barrowton men, too. I don’t like this, Ronnel.”

“You think Lady Barbrey and your grandfather would call it off? Now that you’re all but wrung blood from stone?”

“You’d think, aye, but you know Aunt Barbrey. Thorough.”

“Thorough, aye. And efficient. And a right terror if you don’t get the job done right. No offense.”

“None taken, aye, I’ve been on the end of it. Don’t want to mess this up. Lord Bolton won’t tell us much about the trade, so she wants us to know everything. Me and Roose. But of course, Roose is with the scouts, so I have to do it. So it’s up to me to be,” he drank again, “thorough.”

“And efficient. You’ve done well on that front, lad. Sorry I couldn’t help with it more.”

“Not your job, Ronnel. You’ve enough to do.”

“Aye.” Ronnel finished his stew. “You taking it all right?”

“Dom or the girl?”

“Either. Both. Being here. Missing your family. The betrothal. The war. Anything.”

“Aye, well. Lord Bolton said that Tywin Lannister will give him back. No reason to doubt that. And since the trade’s already been agreed to, no reason to think he’s being hurt. So that’s good.” Robert started stabbing his empty trencher with his fork. “I think Roose is angry that Lord Bolton won’t tell him anything more. ‘He’s my goodbrother’ and all that. I tell him, he sees you like me, but with more responsibilities. No use trying to get anything out of Lord Bolton. Best just say your piece and wait for him to tell you what’s going on. Aye?”

“Aye, I take that approach with him.” Ronnel washed down some ale.

“The Stark girl… I felt better after writing to Branna and Beth. Awful. I don’t even want to wonder what the Lannisters must have been saying to her, doing to her. Dom was right about the trade. His Grace has no heirs now. A wife of no repute, and no heirs. Better have traded the Kingslayer, bent the knee, and begged for scraps than this. And Lady Catelyn let the Kingslayer loose anyway.”

“Aye, His Grace and Ser Edmure are feeling that keenly, I’d wager.” Ronnel paused. “Young Domeric. His plan. Did he…?” Robert raised his hand.

“Aye. He never liked talking about it. Very private, he is. Like Lord Bolton.”

“The poetry? That he’d read to the Barrowton girls?”

“Aye.”

“He’ll take it hard.”

“I’d wager so. But it’s not my place to discuss. Like I said. Private.”

“Too private. Lad doesn’t talk enough. Unhealthy, that is.”

“Aye. I tried, but goading only works so much. And drink. Roose didn’t try at all. Said it wasn’t his place.”

“Has to be someone’s place though. Gods only know Lord Bolton wouldn’t talk to him.”

“No.” Robert started spinning the fork on his middle finger. “Let’s not speak of this, aye? Dom wouldn’t like it. What did Wilma and Aunt Lyra say in their last letter?”

Ronnel smiled. “Wilma’s started barrel racing. Wynton signed his name.” He took out a scrap of parchment. He must have been so proud to keep it in his pocket. W-Y-N-T-O-N S-T-O-U-T, Robert read, in big and blocky letters. The quill had shaken and the ink had blotted, betraying a little boy’s lack of control, but he could read it all the same. “See?”

Robert laughed. “That’s wonderful. A lad needs to know his letters.” He thought of baby Wynton, just shy of three namedays, all pudgy knees and drooly smiles. But Ronnel’s smile was sad. “Not wonderful you’re missing it.”

“No.”

“Aye, but we’ll be home soon, Lord Bolton said. Leave Harrenhal, take the Moat. And we’ll all… we’ll all go back. You and me, Roose and Dom. All of us who’re still here.”

“Aye.” That was the wrong thing to say. Robert bit his tongue. _We’ll be home soon. We’ll all come back._ That was what Lord Willam had said to Ronnel when he’d left for Dorne with Lord Stark and Ser Mark, as Ronnel had told it. _You’re just a squire, _Lord Willam had said, _Go home with Lord Roger._ _Ethan Glover’s a squire too, _Ronnel had countered, but Lord Willam had just left. And Lord Willam never came back. It was one of Ronnel’s regrets. Not being there for Lord Willam as a squire should have been. “We’ll be home more quickly than we were last time.”

Fuck, he really had said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, Ronnel.”

“Not your fault, lad.”

What else had Ronnel wanted to talk about? “Lady Sara wrote back to me. Said it wasn’t any trouble that it took me so long. She’s sorry about Dom. The Glenmores are well.”

“See, lad, not so hard, is it? Writing to a lady, especially one who you’ve already spoken to.” _Aye. Spoken to._ Robert laughed.

“Not so hard, aye. She’d have known if Dom helped me anyway, most like. Too many pretty words. Wouldn’t sound like me.”

They both guffawed.

“Excited for your wedding?”

“Not too much. ‘S too far away. Have to take the Moat first. And Ser Edmure’s wedding comes before that. And the march up the Green Fork. And we don’t even leave for a few more days. Once we’re past Ser Edmure’s wedding and’ve taken the Moat, then I’ll be excited.”

“Won’t be as good as yours. Stuffy sept, stuffy septon, stuffy sermon. Beneath the leaves and the swirling sky, that’s the place for a wedding.”

“Aye. But Lord Bolton’s wedding wasn’t so bad.”

Ronnel drained his cup. “Aye. Not so bad at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a fun and safe New Year. Here's to 2020! My goal is to finish this fic by the end of the year. And before we get TWOW. 
> 
> I like writing Robbie because even in his sad moments he's still a happier human being than Domeric is. He's also more of an 'interactive' person, if that makes sense.
> 
> There's a character named Wynton Stout that Jon Snow interacts with at the Wall. He's a super old ranger and was nearly named Lord Commander in (I think) the 230s or 240s. Ronnel's kid is named after him.
> 
> Barrel racing is a rodeo event for women that young children of both sexes can compete in. I think that the southwestern part of the North would have had both refined and rough horse riding competitions, from dressage to rodeo type events to short and long-distance racing. Maybe they have something like the 1000km Mongolian Derby. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been supporting this story. Wishing you all success on your New Year's resolutions and whatever else you have planned for this decade.


	25. Sansa VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Domeric arrive at Gulltown and then Runestone.

When the eighth morning on the _Mistmarcher _dawned in the east, they had crossed the Bay of Crabs. The Tyroshi captain with the funny purple beard announced that they’d be docking at Gulltown by high noon.

Sansa changed into clean clothes and helped Domeric pack up their things and strap them to their dragon’s saddle.

“If we disembark around noon, we should reach Runestone by nightfall, or shortly after.”

“You don’t want to stay in Gulltown for the night and reach Runestone in the day?”

“No. My face is known in Gulltown. If we stay at any of the inns that you would find to your liking, someone will recognize me. Someone will tell. Baelish owns this town. He has ears everywhere that highborns would go. Do you trust Baelish?” He was touching the tip of her nose with his first finger.

“No, ser.” Sansa crossed her eyes and focused on Domeric’s finger on her nose. She pursed her lips like she was sucking on a fresh lemon. He started to chuckle. “What if we stayed in lesser accommodations?”

“My lady,” he said. “We have been staying in lesser accommodations. Now I don’t know about you, but I am looking forward to an improvement. Better living. My own chambers and a featherbed.”

“A featherbed,” Sansa said. “Yes.”

It was good that he started to lead her back above deck, then. He couldn’t see her face standing in front of her. He couldn’t see her pout. “Don’t pout,” he would say, if he saw one. “Smile, aye?” Then he would tip up her chin with one hand and tug up the corners of her mouth with the other. If that didn’t work, he would kiss the corners of her mouth, and if that didn’t work, he would kiss her full on the lips. That usually worked, but if it didn’t, he’d start tickling her ribs, and that never failed.

Now she was pouting, and she had only until they got above deck to change her face, or else the tickles would come.

On the one hand, Sansa was looking forward to the safety of Runestone’s walls, the protection of Lord Royce and his men, to wearing pretty dresses and jewels and eating fine food. On the other, being Sansa Stark again meant staying under a septa’s watchful eye and walking with two guards behind her. It meant sewing with the ladies and only glimpsing the knights in passing, or in the hall. It meant that she’d have her own apartments, and Domeric would have his, and that meant she wouldn’t get to fall asleep with him holding her anymore, or wake up with an ear on his heart.

Sansa was going to miss it. She was going to miss eating in the mess below deck and sitting on Domeric’s knee while he spooned stew into her mouth, or fed her crusts of bread with his fingers. She was going to miss how he casually slung his arm around her shoulders, or her waist, or her hips, and drew her closer to him, while they walked, while they stood, or while they sat. She was going to miss threading their fingers together, and how he would tuck her hair behind her ear or run a knuckle down her cheekbone. She was going to miss stroking her finger along the cut of his jaw, the seven days’ worth of beard roughing up her hand. But most of all she would miss the kisses. Kisses in the bright day, under the cloudless sky, the sailors shouting around them. Or kisses on the cheek in the mess while they were sitting down to eat. Kisses in the dark, on brow and eyes and ears and nose and mouth, along the jaw and on the pulsing veins of the neck.

The thought of no more kisses at Runestone made Sansa pout. She would be all right with keeping the pout on her mouth and suffering the inevitable tickles. They would be the last tickles for a long while.

Domeric led her to the rail of the deck on the port side. “You’re pouting,” he said, once he saw her face. “Smile, aye?”

Sansa wanted to take in all of it. His fingers on her face, the three kisses, and even the tickles. She laughed.

“There’s my smile,” he said. He was smiling with his mouth, but not with his eyes. He must have been somewhat sad, too. Domeric slung his arm around her waist and stared out onto the grey-green bay. Already she could hear the gulls, and she could see the coast if she squinted.

“Gulltown,” she said. “What’s it like?”

“You’ll see it. It’s better than King’s Landing. Cobblestone streets. Cooler and cleaner, but not as cold or as clean as White Harbor. Bigger than Duskendale. Lots of rain.” He paused. “Nice shops. Many places for ladies’ things. Master smiths too. Lots of inns. Warehouses and customs offices. Fish markets and farmers’ markets. You can find most anything in Gulltown. Anything from anywhere.

“Within the walls, there’s the Gull Tower to the east, by the harbor. That’s the seat of the Shetts of Gulltown. Then back away from water towards the north is House Grafton’s seat. Their castle. There’s a large lighthouse off to the west of the town that they have as well, it’s where their sigil comes from. And the Arryns of Gulltown have a large manse in the city too. We won’t pass by the manse, it’s out of our way, but I’m sure Lord Royce has a sketch in his library.”

Sansa clasped his hand on her waist. “We can’t stay even half a day?”

“No. I am sorry, my lady.”

She pursed her lips. “All right, then.”

Then he smiled at her with all his teeth. “No pouting.”

As the _Mistmarcher_ sailed into the harbor, they passed an island on which stood a tall white building. Sansa could hear bells above the cawing of the gulls and the whipping of the wind. And was that singing?

“That’s the Motherhouse of Maris,” Domeric said, tightening his arm around her and pointing with his other hand. Salt spray landed on his face. “It must be noontime. Seven bells at noon, and then the novices sing the Seven hymns, and then they resume the office of the Seven.”

The _Mistmarcher _dropped anchor for the customs inspection. A short and mustachioed Valeman came aboard and spoke to the purple-bearded captain, who led him below deck.

“That shouldn’t take too long,” Domeric said. “Customs inspections in Gulltown rarely take as long as the ones in White Harbor.”

Domeric was right. In less than a quarter of an hour the inspector emerged above deck with the captain and shook his hand before disembarking. The ship started to move again towards the docks. “I want to put on my armor before we make port. We should also get my horse from below. They’ll let the passengers off first before unloading the cargo.”

Sansa nodded. When the ship dropped anchor again and was safely secured to the dock, the sailors lowered the gangplank. Then Domeric led her below deck, he strapped on his armor, retrieved his horse, and they emerged again.

Sansa could smell crabs and fish and brine as they came off the docks and passed a fish market. Domeric pulled her into the first clear alleyway and helped her onto his horse. Then he swung into the saddle behind her and pulled up the hood of his cloak so it hid the upper part of his face.

“Pull your hood up as well,” he said. His voice was tight. “We should have covered your hair again.”

Sansa nodded. At least she’d had the sense to braid it. She pulled down the hood of her cloak and smoothed the plait down her back so her hair couldn’t be seen.

He turned his horse into the street again, and they began to make their way to the northern gate and the road to Runestone. They couldn’t go fast, for the streets were full of carts and shouting smallfolk, and they were made of cobblestone. It was just like the ride through King’s Landing. Silent, tense. An almost eerie nervousness between them. Sansa could feel it in the tightness of his forearm against her belly.

She tried to turn her head to look over her shoulder to see if anyone was following them, any red cloaks, but she couldn’t see around him. She shifted her eyes to the left and to the right, all she could see were carts and shops and more and more people. The only guards she saw were standing at attention at their posts.

They were not being pursued.

Deep into Gulltown they passed a tall tavern with colorful, gauzy silks blowing in the wind, hanging out of the many open windows. Sansa could hear laughter and sweet music from within. A pretty maid was calling out the door and hawking a type of pie and all sorts of cakes, and above her head swung a sign hammered into the shape of a bird with an iron cage around it, glowing red in the light of a lantern.

Sansa drummed on Domeric’s vambrace as he hustled them forward. “Are you sure we can’t stay, not even for the evening? Or stop for the pies? That tavern – with the red light and the bird cage and the music – it looks like such a nice place to stay, or eat – ”

“A nice place to stay,” he said. It sounded like he was choking. “Aye.”

“Have you been there?” She looked back at the swinging bird and the pretty red lamp. The sweet music was fading into the distance, drowning under the sounds of horses and merchants.

“Aye.”

“So we can stop for pie?”

“No, my lady. Baelish owns the place.” Domeric sounded very uncomfortable. He stiffened behind her and quickened the pace as much as he could in the crowded street.

“Oh.” She was pouting, but he couldn’t see. “I understand.” They couldn’t very stop where Lord Baelish’s hired men would see them. They’d send a raven to Lord Baelish, and Lord Baelish would tell the Queen. Sansa didn’t look back.

After they passed House Grafton’s seat and through the north gate, the cobblestones ended and the street became a dirt road. All through the town they had been riding uphill, and now they were up high, in a pass through what seemed like a mountain.

“Are these the Mountains of the Moon?”

“The Mountains of the Moon? Sansa, this is just a hill.”

“Oh.”

“The Mountains of the Moon are further west. They’re higher. The tallest mountains in Westeros. This hill here, it’s not even of a height with the Lonely Hills back home. By the Dreadfort. It’s more like the Sheepshead Hills by the Hornwood.” Then he paused. “You’ve never been to the Sheepshead Hills?”

“No, ser. Only to Torrhen’s Square, Castle Cerwyn, and White Harbor.”

“Lord Stark never took you?”

“Never me. Only Robb.”

Domeric tensed again. Sometime on the _Mistmarcher_ the mention of her brother had started making him frown. It made Sansa nervous. _I should not be nervous, _she thought. _When we see Robb again, Domeric will be courteous and charming, and Robb will see how good he is. I trust him._

They passed through the hills and came into a dense woodland. Domeric tightened his grip around her. Beneath the thick forest canopy, there was little light. As they proceeded forward on the trail Sansa could hear wild animal sounds, caws and screeches and rustling leaves. Her nose wrinkled, and she smelled dew-damp moss and rotting plants. _This is not peaceful like a godswood, _she thought. _It’s a wild forest where men grown go to hunt game. Great stags and boars. And thieves might be hiding here. Outlaws._

Sansa looked around. It felt too dark for the afternoon. _We should have stayed in Gulltown._

As if he had heard her thoughts, Domeric spoke. “My lady does not like the woods.”

“No, ser.”

“Your mother never took you hunting.”

“No.”

“Aye, southron ladies do not hunt. Not truly. They hawk and they prance about the woods while the men chase the boar, but they do not hunt. Northern ladies hunt, though. My Aunt Barbrey likes to hunt. And Beth and Branna. My Ryswell cousins. They’ll don their leather gloves and their quivers and their bows, trap some squirrels or shoot a deer, and make their collars and cuffs and shawls out of vair from their own kills.”

“That sounds wonderful, ser.” Maybe in a better world it would have been wonderful. _Arya would have liked that better than me. She would have the bow, and trap the squirrel, and have me dress her vair. _Sansa frowned._ We could have done that together. We might have come to like the hunting and the dressing both. We could have come to like each other._

“Aye. My mother… she loved hunting. My father too. It was one of the only things they did together.” Then he paused. “I love the hunt. The woods, the chase. Even if I am hunting with my father and not with my friends. It is the best feeling. Thundering through the woods atop your horse and going for the kill. We love our hunts, we Boltons.”

Sansa shivered. “Many men like hunting. My father… the late king…”

“That may be true, but none loves the hunt so much as we Boltons do.” She could hear him smiling behind her. “I should like to take you on a hunt one day.”

Sansa hummed in assent. In her mind she heard the Hound. _Killing is the sweetest thing there is. _Her breath caught in her throat. _He likes to kill, _she thought. _Many men like to kill. _

The Hound had not been wrong about everything.

Sansa had been wrong about the woods. Nothing had hurt them there. No beasts came out to pounce at them, no outlaw bands loosing arrows from their bows. She had been wrong, but she was still glad when they left.

It was dusk when the thinning trees stopped for good. The sun was low in the cloudy sky, a shiny patch in the dreary grey. But the Royce lands were nothing dreary – golden fields of autumn wheat stretched in majesty near as far as the eye could see, and farther still, purple waves of lavender rolled in the distance. And on the horizon –

“There it is, princess,” Domeric said. “Runestone.”

And there it was. Up on a hill to the north Runestone loomed in the distance, all tall stone towers and sharp sloping roofs, high curtain walls and bronze banners snapping in the wind, the sky-blue moon-and-falcon soaring above them all.

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa said.

“Aye,” said Domeric. “We’ll be there tonight.” He gave a winsome sigh before starting them onward again, through the head-deep sea of gold.

As the day died the grey clouds cleared into mottled purple and pink and orange. The sun was sinking into the west when the wheat stopped abruptly and gave way to tall stalks of lavender. Runestone grew and grew before Sansa’s eyes as they rode through the great daze of purple and green. Bunches of lavender swung in the twilight and swatted at Rhaegar’s flank as he walked. When they were deep into the purple Domeric stopped abruptly, dismounted, and pulled Sansa off the horse too.

“Princess,” he said, “my lady.” He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Sansa.” Domeric was clenching his jaw. “When we get to Runestone – ” he stopped. “You know – ” his words had not been so clipped and curt, not even on the first day. The muscles in his lower face were twitching. He reached out for her and Sansa stepped forward. He gripped her by the shoulders and looked her straight in the face. “I have been – with you – much too familiar. Once we get to the castle – ”

Sansa bit her lip. “I know,” she said. “It has not been very proper, how we both have acted. And I know,” she paused, “that it – it must stop. For propriety.” She didn’t want it to stop.

“Propriety,” Domeric said. “Aye.” He sighed and released her shoulders, and then he pulled off his gauntlets. “Propriety. And reputation. And honor. Yours, and mine.” He balanced them on his horse’s saddle and then put his arms out to her, palms open. Sansa stepped forward again, pressing herself against his breastplate and tipping up her face to look up at him. She raised a hand to his cheek and stroked the dark whiskers with her thumb.

“I do not like it,” he said, as he pulled her into a tight hug. “I do not like it. Not at all.”

Sansa did not like it either. She nodded, her nose brushing his face.

“I do not want to go,” he said, face tilting to the castle. “I would like to wait a while.”

“Yes,” Sansa said.

He pulled her into the tall stalks of lavender and began to pluck. When he had a whole clutch of stems in his fist, he spun her around and begun to weave them into her hair, around the crown of her head and down through her plait. When he was done, he grabbed both of her wrists.

“So pretty,” he said. “My Jenny.” Then he twirled her in place, started singing, and led her in a dance, the lavender stalks bumping her head and brushing against her legs.

When the song was over Domeric chuckled. “That’s not right,” he said. “Jenny of Oldstones.” He tipped up her chin. “You could never be Jenny. You’re a princess.” He brought their noses together. “I’m the Jenny here, princess. And you’re Duncan the Small.”

Then he pulled back. He was clenching his jaw again. “Don’t give up your crown for me.”

“I won’t have to,” Sansa said. “I won’t have to give up anything. Robb – ” but he frowned when she said Robb’s name. “You’re Lord Bolton’s son. The heir to the Dreadfort. There’s nothing wrong with you. It would be a good match. And – and if my family thinks elsewise – you – you can show them. You’re good. Not like the rest of them.”

Domeric adjusted a stem of lavender next to her ear. His mouth was pressed into a thin line. It looked like he was biting his cheek, too.

“I mean that,” Sansa said. “Truly, I do.”

Domeric was silent for a moment. “Would you say it again, my lady?”

“You’re good. A true knight. Different from the rest of them.” She wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Not like my family?”

“Not like them. But if you were, it wouldn’t matter to me.”

“You ought not say that, my lady.”

“It’s true.” She nudged his nose with hers.

“All right,” he said. Then he kissed her softly and she frowned.

“Not like that – the last – ” she stuck out her lower lip, and he stroked it with one of his fingers. A crease appeared on his brow.

“No,” he whispered. “Not like that.” His lip was trembling and she tasted blood when he tried again. She was dizzy when they broke apart.

He looked at the castle again. “I don’t want – ” he began. “We could go to Lys – ”, but they couldn’t, they had talked about it, and he shook his head. Then, “I love you,” he said. “Don’t forget.”

“I couldn’t,” she said. “I won’t have to.” She gave a tight smile. Her throat hurt. Her chest hurt. It all hurt. “And I love you.”

The sun had set. “We ought be going,” he said. _I don’t want to go, either._ She took his hand as he pulled her out of the purple, where his horse was steadfastly waiting.

He put on the gauntlets, gripped her waist, and helped her up. When she was safely astride he did not let go. Instead, he wrapped himself around her in another hug.

When he let go he didn’t mount up behind her. Instead, he took the reins in hand and began to walk, leading the horse by a few paces.

They passed out of the field of lavender and through the dark village, Runestone and its walls growing ever larger. Sansa could hear Domeric whistling softly. She knew the words.

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to tell Domeric that when the Tarlys have a huntsman as their sigil, and House Hunter's name is literally hunter, yes there are people who like hunting more than Boltons.
> 
> It only took 10 chapters but we finally got to the Vale. This is another mostly worldbuilding chapter. I originally thought of posting Sansa IX along with it, but that comes in at around 7K words, so it's almost like two chapters in and of itself. The description of Gulltown was inspired by this screenshot of Westeroscraft: https://external-preview.redd.it/DB6ucET8XC3aGbx4HOqtau7_qlwOnAifasuVTWI4ZUQ.jpg?auto=webp&s=7c74a6c65e
> 
> You will notice that I reoriented the the fields somewhat they were south of Runestone rather than west. I saw the screenshot and I knew there had to be a scene in the lavender field. And that Runestone would have awesome lavender products like lavender bread, lavender soap, lavender oil, lavender sprinkled among the rushes. Lavender tea, lavender sprigs on your pillow when you return to your room in the evening. Lavender everywhere, lavender everything.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been supporting this story with your readership, comments, and kudos. See you all next week!


	26. Sansa IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Domeric enter Runestone and speak with Lord Royce.

A bronze-clad guard stopped them at the gates. It was dark. They were closed. “Halt!” He boomed from atop the walls. “State your name and your business and you may enter.”

“A knight escorting a lady in distress, in need of refuge and sanctuary. Lord Royce knows my name and my face. And my lady’s.”

“Then you shall have no problems stating your name so his lordship knows to expect your face and your lady’s, Ser Knight.”

Domeric started rummaging around in one of the saddlebags that held his clothes. Even close by she could not see what it was. It would be impossible to see in the dark, and from up on high. While he was doing so the Royce man called for one of his fellow guards. Sansa could hear hoofbeats behind her. There was another rider, quite close. She looked to her right, to the east. He was coming around the castle wall…

“Ser – ” she started, but she was interrupted.

“I have a token,” Domeric called, waving the brooch over his head. It didn’t catch the torchlight. “Lord Royce will know me.”

“Know you? Not with that scruff on your face, you knave. Domeric Bolton, don’t you have a war to fight?”

Domeric whirled around, searching for the speaker. When he finally saw the other man – blond, cloaked in red and outfitted in riding leathers, sitting atop a dappled grey destrier – he leaned back against Rhaegar’s neck and started laughing like a loon.

“Let them in, Symond!” called the rider in red.

“As you say, Ser Mychel!” The gates opened.

Ser Mychel dismounted and led the grey destrier to the gatehouse. Domeric was still chuckling into his gauntlets when Ser Mychel reached them. Ser Mychel looked up at Sansa and inclined his head, extending his hand. Sansa offered hers and he kissed it.

“You do not appear so distressed, my lady,” he said. “Unless you have been attacked by a beast of the lavender field. Or perhaps it is your knight who has been distressing you. He certainly has distressed me, bringing a beautiful lady to my liege lord’s keep and refusing to tell us her name. Pray tell, my lady, shall you let him make amends and remember his courtesies? Or shall you leave him the fool and introduce yourself to me? I am Ser Mychel, of House Redfort. I suppose that mirthful monkey over there is Domeric Bolton. It sounds like him. That was his voice I heard. But my dear friend Domeric rarely laughs without a drink in his hand, never wears a beard, and is always perfectly courteous when ladies are near.”

Domeric was struggling to breathe, gasping into his gauntlets in between chuckles. Sansa looked at him, and then politely smiled at Ser Mychel. _Why is he laughing so? Why is it so hard for him to stop? _

Domeric eventually recovered himself. He cleared his throat with a few dry coughs. “Let us get through the gates, Mychel. I shall tell all.”

“As you say.” Domeric and Ser Mychel led their horses through the gate house. Only after servants had come forward to see to their horses, and after he had helped her dismount, did Domeric introduce her to Ser Mychel. He spoke in a low voice.

“Mychel. This is Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I would bring her before Lord Royce anon.” Ser Mychel’s blue eyes widened. Domeric turned to her. The smile in his eyes died a little bit. It made her sad. She smiled anyway. “My apologies, princess. Please forgive my disrespect. I had quite a shock, I did not believe my eyes. I did not expect to see my dear friend Mychel here.”

“Sansa Stark of Winterfell?” he said, dropping to a knee. “Of course. I am enchanted, my lady. Words fail your beauty, famous though it may be.”

Sansa felt her face warm. “Well met, Ser Mychel. It is good to meet you. Ser Domeric has spoken of you most fondly.” Sansa took Domeric’s offered arm.

“Fondly? He has told you nothing.” Ser Mychel grinned. “Follow me. Bronze Yohn will not be sleeping now. He will not deny me an audience.” He paused before starting off in the direction of the main keep. “Will you forgive my friend, my lady? I would not, if I were you. Not if he has been so beastly.”

Sansa looked at Domeric as they walked. His pale eyes were focused on the back of Mychel’s retreating head, and he was wearing a tight grin.

“I will forgive him,” she said.

They followed Ser Mychel into the main keep. The guards wore bronze cloaks, and their breastplates were engraved with lesser versions of the runes she saw all those moons ago at the Hand’s Tourney. There were runes carved in the stone over the doors, and runes carved into the iron. Once they were inside, Sansa could see bronze hands ensconced into the walls, holding up the torches.

“You have entered Bronze Yohn’s service, then?” Domeric asked Ser Mychel.

“After a fashion,” Ser Mychel replied. There was a dark note in his voice. “He is paying a pretty price for me to be here.”

“Is it a good position?”

“One could say. I did not ask for it.” Ser Mychel paused. “I have been named the Knight of the Red Rune Tower.”

“Congratulations, friend,” Domeric said. “Knight of the Red Rune Tower?” Sansa could hear Domeric frowning. “That was to be Robar’s.”

“Yes, well. Rebuilding hasn’t finished yet. And wasn’t as good as the Red Knight of the Rainbow Guard. Not enough glory.” Another pause. “Do you know?”

“Aye. My lady told me. Loras Tyrell told her himself.”

“The Knight of Flowers.” Ser Mychel took a breath. “Do not mention the golden rose of high-buggery to Bronze Yohn. He was… very wroth.” Then he looked to her, blanching. “Pardon me, my lady.”

“Of course, ser.” There was silence for a beat. “I was very grieved to hear of Ser Robar’s passing. He was very charming when we had occasion to meet.”

More silence passed between Ser Mychel and Domeric for a moment. Heat rushed into Sansa’s face. _Did I say something wrong?_

“Thank you, my lady,” Ser Mychel said. “We were all very grieved.” He rounded a corner and started up a set of spiral stairs. “Lord Royce will welcome your condolences.”

As they ascended Domeric and Ser Mychel exchanged barbs and japes. Most of them had to do with Domeric’s beard. She didn’t understand. He looked fine with the beard. It could have used a bit of trimming to even it out but on the whole, he was still quite comely. More like a Northman than a southron knight.

Ser Mychel passed through an archway when they had walked up several flights. He led them down a corridor which looked to be filled with family apartments. At the end of a corridor was a heavy wooden door flanked by two Royce guards. Ser Mychel said a few words and one of the guards knocked on the door.

“My lord, Ser Mychel and two guests to see you.”

“Enter!” came a booming voice. The door swung open.

Bronze Yohn Royce was sitting behind the large, rune-carved desk in his solar, bushy grey eyebrows shading his eyes as he examined some parchments under his long and similarly bushy grey beard. Another man she recognized as his eldest son, Ser Andar, was leaning against a wall, a goblet of wine in hand.

“Mychel,” Lord Royce said, without looking up, “the gates are closed. Have you brought me another wandering septon picked up on your evening ride? Boy, for your sake I grant you liberties but truly, Septon Lucos – ”

Then Lord Royce’s slate eyes flicked upward, and he straightened. Even sitting down, he was very tall.

“Mychel,” he said, the lines of his face deepening, “introduce your guests before I commit myself to any treason.”

Ser Mychel grinned. “My lord, begging entrance to your gate today I happened upon Ser Domeric Bolton, of the Dreadfort,” here Domeric inclined his head, “but you know him. Or you might not, with the beard. Anyhow his far more lovely companion is Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell.” Sansa let go of Domeric’s arm and made a deep curtsey.

“It is good to see you again, Lord Royce, Ser Andar.”

Lord Royce stood at once and Ser Andar straightened, putting down his cup.

“My lady,” Ser Andar said, bowing his head.

Lord Royce had broken into a big smile, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “My lady. Princess. Sansa Stark of Winterfell.” He came forward to clasp her hands. Then he knelt and kissed them. “Ned Stark’s daughter. How glad I am to see you well. Welcome to Runestone.” He looked towards the door. “Bread and salt!” One of the guards outside sprung into motion. “Andar! Mychel! Bring over the chairs.”

Ser Andar and Ser Mychel obeyed. As Sansa sat and helped herself to bread and salt, Lord Royce addressed her. “My lady, we heard you were dead. Such horrible things we’ve been hearing from the capital.”

“Horrible things, my lord?”

“Most horrible. We’d heard you’d flung yourself off a tower in the Red Keep. It near on broke my heart to hear it. I am glad it is not so.” Then he turned to Domeric, slate eyes shining. “Was that your work, lad?”

“Aye, my lord. A broken window and a torn dress.” Then Domeric frowned while Ser Andar filled his wine cup. “I cannot believe they fell for the ruse. It was too easy.” Then he took a sip. “But we were not pursued. It was most strange.”

“Indeed.” Lord Royce turned back to Sansa. “Forgive me, my lady, for believing the rumors. From what I've heard of that boy Joffrey, I had no reason to doubt. I near on thought he must have thrown you out the window himself.” Lord Royce was scowling now.

She could tell him, Sansa knew. Lord Royce was Father’s friend. She could trust him.

“You are right about Joffrey, my lord,” she said. She told him about the crossbow and the Kingsguard while fiddling with her skirt.

“_The bastard!_” Lord Royce thundered, thumping his fist on the table. “Tell me more, girl.” Then his face softened. “Forgive me, my lady. I forgot myself. You may speak as little or as much as you like.”

_If Lord Royce is to be of much help to you it would be wise to share with him all you know from your time at court. _Domeric had told her that. So she spoke more.

“Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna wanted to take me to Highgarden to marry Lord Willas. I told Ser Dontos about it. Ser Dontos Hollard. He wanted to take me away too, but he said that the Tyrells only wanted me for my claim to Winterfell. And it was never the right time for Ser Dontos. Then Ser Domeric came for me, so I went with him instead.”

Lord Royce nodded, brow furrowed. “The Tyrells. Yes, yes. They bid you sniff the bud while the vine snakes up your leg and the thorns prick your skin.” Then he blew air out his nose. “That explains it then. Young Bolton here took you away, and Tywin Lannister thought it was the Tyrells, and no parties were sent north. So now there are mountain clansmen combing the Kingswood and prowling the Reach.”

“Mountain clansmen in the Reach?” Domeric stopped swirling his cup.

“You heard me, lad. Black Ears, Burned Men and Moon Brothers are raiding southwest of King’s Landing, and Stone Crows stalk the Kingswood.” Those were the Imp’s men. Sansa nodded. She had seen them in the Red Keep.

“Pardon my lord, but how do you know this?”

Lord Royce shrugged. “Robar was not the only one with friends among Renly’s people.”

“Then the lion and the rose are at odds.”

“So it would seem.” He scowled. “I had thought that the Imp had merely lost control of them, but the thought that the Old Lion has armed them to do his bidding… bah! I hate it.” Lord Royce drained his wine.

“Is the alliance with the Tyrells still sound?”

“For the nonce. Mace wants his girl for queen. The wedding has not been called off.” Lord Royce grunted. “Tell them, Andar. I hate it. Tell them what _our lady _has done.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. They were talking about Aunt Lysa. Her heart began to beat faster. _It can’t be, it can’t be._

Ser Andar went to stand by his father. “The Lady Lysa has taken Lord Robert and her trusted men to sail for King’s Landing. For the boy Joffrey’s wedding. And to swear fealty to the crown.”

“They were here not three days’ past,” Ser Mychel added. Sansa felt very cold. She looked at Domeric, who was clenching his jaw again. _No. No. Aunt Lysa… No. _She lifted her hand from her skirt to reach out for Domeric, but she stopped herself and settled on the chair’s armrest.

“And after that, when she returns to Gulltown, what will she do?” Lord Royce had made a fist, and the knuckles were white. “_Our lady_ has the gall to return with that – ” he looked at Sansa, closed his mouth, and opened it again – “that _rat_ Baelish. And _marry _him, of all things. To think, _Littlefinger_ in Jon Arryn’s seat, in Jon Arryn’s bed, with Jon Arryn’s wife! Controlling Jon Arryn’s son! Littefinger, Lord Protector of the Vale! Our liege lord! Born to a sellsword’s son, a moneyman who’s never ruled more than a pile of rocks! No. No. _No_. Bah! I hate it.”

Sansa felt the blood drain from her face. “Then… Aunt Lysa… she can’t… My mother… Robb… Uncle Edmure…How could she?”

_This is all wrong. Aunt Lysa was supposed to help._ Her throat started to tighten. _No. No. No._

Lord Royce stood and took her hands again. “I know, my lady, I know. Preposterous, that’s what it is. _Family, Duty, Honor. As High as Honor._” Lord Royce released her hands. “Pardon me, my lady, but your aunt has no honor. Not like your mother. She forgets her family. She shirks her duty. She undermines the whole notion of a marriage alliance! She is craven. She needs a husband to keep her well in hand. And not the one she has chosen for herself. Hoster Tully would be rolling in his grave. He weds her to _Jon Arryn_, a better man could not be found than him, and she goes on to _Littlefinger_ – ”

“My grandfather is dead? Grandfather Hoster?” A stone dropped into Sansa’s belly. _Nothing is going right today. _She had to swallow the pain so she wouldn’t cry.

Lord Royce paled. “My lady. Pardon me. I am so sorry. My condolences. It was very recent. Lady Lysa told us when she was here. She had a bird from your mother.” Then he scowled again. “She forsook her _own father’s _funeral to attend the wedding of the boy who killed her_ goodbrother!_ The gall! The _gall!”_ He turned to Ser Andar. “Andar! More wine. And call for supper! Yes! Our guests have not had supper!”

“At once, Father.”

“My lady, I am so sorry. I have said too much for one evening. Please forgive me if I have overwhelmed you. You have been through quite the ordeal. Would you forgive an old man’s lapse in courtesy?”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lord.” But Sansa didn’t know if that was true. Lord Royce was Father’s friend, but he was sworn to Aunt Lysa, and Aunt Lysa had thrown in with the Lannisters. He was being kind to her, but to keep his oaths he might have to turn her over to the Crown. She looked at Domeric, who was staring at the wall behind Lord Royce’s desk. If she went back to the Crown – she’d never – they’d never - her voice shook. “Will you be giving me to my aunt on her return to Gulltown?”

Lord Royce looked like she had spit in his face. “Give you to your aunt? Seven hells, girl, _no_! Of course not!” He knelt before her and took her hands again. “My lady. You must think so lowly of me. Your father called me friend, and I fled the capital when I could have stayed. Your mother wrote for aid, and I could not raise my banners when your brother marched. Royce and Stark, we are friends. It has been so since the Andals came. Bah! Some friend I have been. I have done nothing. But do you know what I will not do? I will not give you to Lady Lysa or her lover Littlefinger. I will not give you to the Lannisters, who murdered my liege lord and murdered your father. I will not give you to the Tyrells, who murdered my son. No. I will not give you to anyone. I could not help your father. I could not help your brother. But I can help you. I can protect you with my knights and hide you with my walls. I swear it. On my honor as a knight. On my honor as a Royce. On the Runestone and my father’s bones. Sansa Stark, Runestone is yours. For as long as you are here.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, when he released her hands. She couldn’t do better with how much her voice was shaking. But such a rousing speech deserved better than a mere ‘thank you’.

Then Lord Royce’s eyes flicked to Domeric. “Young Bolton! I have forgotten about you. Why did you come to my castle? Why did the Young Wolf choose me for the treason? Not that I complain, I’ve been screaming for treason for nigh on a year! Tell, tell!”

Sansa looked at Domeric as well. He clenched his jaw and then unclenched it. Then he drained his cup and inhaled through his nose. “The Young Wolf did not send me, my lord. I abandoned the army to rescue the princess.” His knuckles whitened over the wine cup. “Someone had to. You heard the lady. They abused her. Someone had to, and His Grace and Ser Edmure kept refusing to do anything. They left her there a hostage so they could keep the Kingslayer.” Then he took another long breath. “The treason is all mine. I abandoned my men and went against the orders of my father and my king. I have brought war to your doors. I am – ”

“Bolton! Bolton! Lad! Stop! Don’t apologize! Don’t frown! Stop!” Lord Royce refilled Domeric’s cup. “Stop speaking as if a deed of true valor was a crime deserving punishment. The Young Wolf has honor! Lady Catelyn has honor! You will receive your just reward! Now drink up, start again, start from the beginning, and do yourself some justice.”

_Lord Royce agrees with me. Domeric was being silly._

Domeric drank. He started with Harrenhal, and said something about serving girls, and it must have been something terrible, for Lord Royce and Ser Andar and Ser Mychel made faces in disgust.

“Lord Yohn. Maidenpool and Darry and the road to Duskendale – did you hear of them?” Domeric was looking into his wine.

“Yes, lad. Nasty business.”

“I want – I didn’t – I couldn’t stop it. I took as little part as I dared. They were my father’s orders. I couldn’t – ”

Ser Mychel filled Domeric’s cup this time. “Dom – ” A guard announced the arrival of their supper, so Lord Royce moved them all to sit around a table in his solar. Sansa wanted to take the spot next to Domeric, but Ser Andar pulled out a chair for her, and then sat down next to her, with his father at the head. Ser Mychel and Domeric took the other side, and then the food was served. Brought to the table were pumpkin soup and candied yams and herb-roasted quail. Domeric eyed the spread with a wolfish grin.

It was amazing how Domeric was able to eat so quickly while remaining so neat. Sansa took her time. While she ate Domeric resumed his conversation with Lord Royce. He spoke about the war in the Riverlands, the campaign to Duskendale, how he broke away when the battle was lost, how he rode to King’s Landing, and how they had journeyed to Gulltown as Bronze Yohn nodded along.

Domeric started rolling a stem of sage with his fork. “The war was lost. I did not like what His Grace was doing, or what my father was doing. My lady needed rescuing, and no one else was going to. So I did that.”

“Understood. Why did you bring her here?”

“I thought it would be safe.” He took a breath. “I did not know about Baelish. I could not have taken her through the Riverlands. We sailed from Duskendale. Your keep is closer to Gulltown than the Redfort is. There was talk at Harrenhal that His Grace could march up the High Road and sail the Bite to retake Moat Cailin. I had thought to meet him when he passed the Bloody Gate.” A pause. “That way is closed to him.”

“It is as you say.”

“Then we cannot have an escort to take her to Riverrun.” Sansa brought her napkin to her mouth to hide her frown.

“No.” Then, “Why not the North? The Dreadfort and Barrowton are but a few days’ ride from White Harbor. I have a fleet. Lady Arryn will not take notice of one ship to White Harbor.”

“The Ironmen stand between White Harbor and Barrowton,” Domeric said. “And the Manderlys occupy the Hornwood. You know about my father’s bastard?”

“I have not heard.” Sansa had not known that Lord Bolton had a bastard, either. _Domeric does not call him brother, or even half-brother. He calls him bastard. _She frowned again.

Domeric flicked his eyes in her direction and quickly looked away. “I will tell you later. The flayed man is not welcome in White Harbor or the Hornwood at this time.” _Why not? I would be welcome everywhere._

“You did not know Balon Greyjoy has died?”

Domeric clutched his fork. “I did not.”

“The way to Barrowton might be open to you.” _Why would he take me to Barrowton? _Sansa opened her mouth to try to speak but Domeric and Lord Royce just kept talking. She looked at Ser Andar, who smiled in apologetic sympathy. _This happens all the time, _he mouthed at her.

“The Moat has fallen?”

“If not yet, then soon. There is to be a Kingsmoot, if my sources are correct.”

“I see.” Domeric started tracing figures on his trencher with his fork. He opened his mouth again.

“Why can’t we write to Robb?” Sansa said. “Why can’t we have Robb tell us where to go from here?”

Domeric looked at her, truly, for the first time in over two hours. She did not like the cold mask on his face. “Your brother is at war, princess. The last I heard, he was at the Crag. In the Westerlands. That was a long campaign. From castle to castle. He might be somewhere else now. I do not know where he is.”

“But my mother is at Riverrun. She will not have moved. Or my uncle Edmure will be there. Lord Royce, you said that… that you heard I was dead. She might have heard that too. It would gladden her heart, my lord, good sers, if she heard otherwise, and from my hand. And my brother Jon. At the Wall.” Then she looked at Lord Royce, who was frowning. “I need not say I am here, Lord Royce. I would only say that I am safe. And the Wall takes no part.”

Lord Royce broke into a smile, bushy brows flying upward on his forehead. “Of course, my girl, of course! Andar, send for Helliweg.” Ser Andar rose from the table, and when he left the solar, a few servants stepped in to clear the dishes away. “Bolton, you ought to write to your father too. Mychel. Fetch the fresh parchment. You know where to find it.” Ser Mychel obeyed.

Domeric nodded stiffly. Ser Mychel brought over a wooden box filled with parchment and quills and inkwells and wax. Sansa took the supplies that Ser Mychel offered to her and began to write.

_Mother. You may have received word that I had flung myself from a tower to spare myself the lions’ wrath. Fear not, for Lord Bolton’s son has saved me. He has taken me to a castle by the sea. Please know that I am well. I love you and I cannot wait to see you again. Sansa._

_Jon. The rumors are not true. I am alive and in the care of a friend of the Watch. I hope you are well. Sansa._

She looked over to where Domeric was writing. His parchment was covered in runes. Then he took another scrap of parchment and wrote out one short line of runes. He looked up and saw her staring.

“Do you read the Old Tongue, princess?”

“No, ser.”

“Then you do not know that this is not the Old Tongue.” He turned to Lord Royce. “My lady’s education has not been completed. May she join Yohnnie in his lessons, while we are here?”

“Of course! Of course! Only the best for a king’s heir! Helliweg will see to it.” Lord Royce glanced at Domeric’s parchments. “Don’t you have something else to add for the Young Wolf?”

“On my honor, I didn’t – ”

“It is what is right. For honor’s sake, lad, rewrite the letter.” Domeric obeyed.

“My lady, little Yohnnie is my grandson. Andar’s boy. He just mastered the runic cypher this past moon. You will meet him tomorrow when I introduce you to the rest of my family.” He paused. “Runic cypher is a code for military messages. All castle-raised Northern lads know it. We learn it here, and so do the Redforts and the Blackwoods.” Then Lord Royce turned back to Domeric. “What is she missing?”

“Everything not related to household management, needlework, or music. And room reading.”

“Of course, of course, room reading. Everything!” He turned back to Sansa. “My lady, why don’t you try to read what young Bolton has to say? It could be your first lesson.”

“I – ” But Lord Royce was already writing out the all the runes in order on a fresh piece of parchment. Underneath them he wrote the letters of the Common Tongue. They were out of order.

“Here, here! Use this! Don’t touch Bolton’s parchments. That’s a girl!”

Sansa started with the short message first. She tried to match the runes to the letters that Lord Royce had written underneath on his parchment. It was a jumble of letters. _This does not mean anything. _She kept staring at the parchment while Lord Royce and Domeric continued talking.

“You didn’t – ”

“No, my lord. I took great pains not to.”

“Your message to your father was rather sparse.”

“Aye.”

“Should not he know about your request for the Young Wolf?”

“He will learn in time.”

“He is your father.”

“Aye.”

Sansa kept on staring at the parchment with the short line of runes. _This is the message for Lord Bolton. _She felt so stupid.

“My lady?” It was Ser Mychel.

“Ser?”

“May I offer my assistance?” Her face was hot.

“I would be grateful, ser.”

“Here, my lady.” Beneath Lord Royce’s line of runes and letters, Ser Mychel wrote the letters of the Common Tongue, and then wrote the runes underneath. The second line of runes was in a different order than the first line of runes. “Think on that a little, my lady.”

“My father is a man of traditional bent and historical ambitions. And the war is lost.”

“What do you mean, lad?”

“He has opened communications with Tywin Lannister.”

“Have there been any past hostage exchanges?”

“A few Freys after the Green Fork. But as I said earlier, His Grace has lost them. And my father has married one. He has no love for losing wars.”

Sansa looked at Domeric’s message again. This time she paired the runes with the letter that fell in the same position in the order of letters. She smiled.

_Father, I am alive and have reached a safe castle. Domeric. _

“Very good, my lady,” said Ser Mychel. “This way, most commanders not of First Men stock cannot read Northern military communications. This code was very helpful during the Rebellion.” She nodded her head.

“Speak plainly, lad.”

“I mean to say that my father will honor his marriage pact, while His Grace has broken his.”

“The right is there. There is legal precedent. But I met your father. I fought at his side at the Stoney Sept and the Trident. He was Rickard Stark’s man, through and through.”

“The Young Wolf is no Rickard Stark. Nor is he an Eddard.”

“He’s your father, Domeric.”

“So he is.” Out of the corner of her eye Sansa saw Ser Mychel move to stand by Domeric and put a hand on his shoulder. She finished transcribing the longer message and furrowed her brow.

_To His Grace Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident. I write to dispel any rumors you may have heard of your sister, Princess Sansa Stark’s death. I have taken her away from the Red Keep to a safe castle into the care and custody of a friend. I would ask of Your Grace consent to take her as my bride. On my honor as a knight I swear that I have seen no harm come to her beyond that which was inflicted at the behest of King Joffrey. I will bring her to a port on the Narrow Sea of your choosing to discuss terms. Your grace, the war is lost. I beseech you to bring the North and the Trident back into King Joffrey’s peace. Beware the wrath of the laughing storm and the cause that is right. Recall the fate of the last young royal to break a Stark betrothal. I write as a leal Northman. Ser Domeric Bolton, Heir to the Dreadfort._

“You would have Robb bend the knee to Joffrey?” She should have known. He’d said as much, that night on the beach. He’d said so, but she’d put it out of her mind. Forgotten.

“There is no other way, princess,” Domeric said. “The war is lost. Your brother’s situation is beyond any help but that of an army of a hundred thousand. Not without the Vale. Think of the dead. Ser Helman. And of the living. Winter is coming. We have to go home. The North needs food. Our smallfolk do. The Riverlands have burned. The North needs the rest of the realm. Not every house has enough coin to buy food from the east.”

Sansa did not like that. “But if Robb bends the knee the Lannisters will kill him.”

“My lady,” Domeric said after he saw her face fall. “It does not have to be that way. He could take the black – ”

“They did not let my father take the black.” It was just like the night on the beach. Everything he was saying was so awful. It was all being ruined. She felt numb. She felt dizzy. No, no, _no_ -

_If Robb takes the black, then I am Lady of Winterfell, unless Jeyne Westerling has a baby. And if I am Lady of Winterfell, and Domeric marries me, the Boltons will get Winterfell. Didn’t he say that the Boltons always want Winterfell? _It was just like Ser Dontos said. It all came back to her claim to Winterfell…

No. It couldn’t be. _He loves me, I know it, he said so. He doesn’t want Winterfell. He asked me to run away to Lys with him. He wants me and only me. He’s not like the rest of them. He’s better…_

“Lord Royce. Is there another way?” It felt like she was speaking through water.

“Not unless your brother can hire sellswords.” Robb wouldn’t do that. “But what young Bolton is saying about your brother is taking the black is preposterous.”

“What is he saying?”

“I will let young Bolton explain himself.”

Domeric looked at her, and then at the table, and then he stared into his wine cup. Then he looked at Ser Mychel, and Ser Mychel nodded to him, and he looked her in the face.

“My lady?”

“Ser?”

“Do you remember what I told you about the Freys?”

“They have turned their cloaks.”

“Aye. And I told you, my father has married one.”

“You mean to say he has turned his cloak too.”

“He wants to end the war.” A moment passed. “So do my grandfather and my aunt.”

Three whole Northern houses against Robb. “But they named him king – ”

“No they didn’t, my lady,” Domeric said gently. “Your brother was crowned at Riverrun. My father was not there. Neither were my grandfather or my aunt, or many Northern lords. It was the riverlords, Rickard Karstark, the Greatjon, Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont. The rest were at Harrenhal or at home. Your brother – the Tallharts and the Hornwoods and the Cerwyns, they need leadership, they are suffering right now, they can’t afford more war. It has to be peace, my lady, and your brother and his followers will not give it to them. If your brother does not bend the knee there yet may be a civil war in the North, now that the ironmen are leaving. Over the right to trade with the South. The right to import food. To have peace come spring.”

No. It couldn’t be this way. But how could it not? Everything he was saying sounded awful.

“House Cerwyn will not abandon Robb. Lord Medger, Cley – ”

“Are dead, my lady. Lord Medger died after the Battle on the Green Fork, and Cley died at the hands of the Ironmen. Lady Jonelle – she, she is at the Twins, my lady stepmother speaks with her often, she is quite wroth over this situation, she must wed now, and soon, else Cerwyn should fall to a cousin of hers. She mislikes what your brother has wrought. And the Tallharts – the Ironmen, they killed Benfred and Leobald, and Lady Tallhart and Lady Eddara and Lady Berena and her sons are trapped. In Torrhen’s Square. By the Ironmen. And Lady Berena is Lady Hornwood now too, the Tallharts and the Hornwoods are one house. And with Robett Glover dead or taken, the Ironmen have Galbart Glover’s heirs. My lady, please, it’s for the best, your brother will return in disgrace, the Ironmen have wrought too much damage. Many lords are unhappy, they know the war is lost – ”

_The war is lost. Robb’s lords are unhappy. I am unhappy too. Why shouldn’t Robb’s lords abandon him? He abandoned me. _But that thought was wrong. Robb was her brother. Her king. She had to be loyal. Besides, Robb was the one who would decide who she would marry.

Domeric must have seen her face fall again because he stopped talking. A shadow passed over his face and for a moment he looked like the Domeric who held her hair as she was sick, not the one who said awful things. “Forgive me, my lady. I have spoken out of turn. The Cerwyns and Hornwoods and Tallharts and Glovers may have quarrels with your brother’s rule, but they have not been wronged. House Frey has been wronged. House Frey has the right of it. That is why I wrote of the Laughing Storm. And of Rhaegar Targaryen. Do you know of the Laughing Storm?”

“He was Lord Lyonel Baratheon.”

“Do you remember what he did?”

“He rebelled against Aegon V because Duncan the Small wed Jenny of Oldstones instead of his betrothed, Lyonel’s daughter.”

“And what did Rhaegar Targaryen do?”

“He stole my Aunt Lyanna away from King Robert. Then King Robert rebelled and overthrew the Targaryens.”

“Who was in the right?”

“King Robert.”

“And before?”

“Aegon V.”

“Why Aegon V?”

“Because Ser Duncan the Tall won the trial by combat.”

“Why was King Robert right where Lord Lyonel was wrong?”

Sansa opened her mouth and closed it. She did not know, and she could see that Domeric knew that she did not know.

“A trial by combat calls upon the judgement of the gods. The gods judged Aegon V’s cause right, as they did King Robert’s.”

Sansa frowned. “But King Robert did not have a trial by combat. He won a war.”

“My lady, what is a war but a trial by combat with thousands of champions?” Sansa could see Domeric playing with his hands on the table. He wanted to touch her, to hold her, she knew, but he wouldn’t. Not with Lord Royce and Ser Mychel there. “Your brother will lose his war. His trial. Against the Freys, when they join the Lannisters.” He looked into her face. “Princess. I do not like it either. I wish you brother had never sent Theon Greyjoy away. But he did, and the war is lost. I do not want your brother to die. His Grace. My king. But the war needs to end. We need to go North before winter comes. Your brother needs to bend the knee. You are right. The Lannisters will kill him, or their friends will. But that won’t happen if he goes North first, and then takes the black before the Lannisters or the Freys can reach him.”

His gaze was not indifferent. It made her heart ache_. _Sansa looked to Lord Royce.

“Robb truly cannot win?”

Lord Royce sighed. His beard and brows drooped a little. “My lady. Your brother has won every battle but lost the war. There will be no victory for him.” He sighed again. “I wish it had been elsewise. Truly, I do. I wish that my lady had marched as soon as Riverrun had been besieged. I wish the Young Wolf had joined his might to Stannis and that Renly had fallen in line. I wish that the whole realm had united against the Lannisters. I wish that my son had not been killed. He must bend the knee.” Then he took a breath and looked at Domeric. “But young Bolton here. What he is saying about the Freys, and his father. It’s… dour. Dreadful. Unrealistic! Like I said before. Lord Bolton never struck me as anything other than your grandfather’s man. A Stark man. As the whole North stands for Stark. He is shrewd, yes, cold, yes, but he will use his cold shrewd mind to help your brother. He’s like young Bolton here! He will counsel your brother to bend the knee.”

Lord Royce stood and put a hand on Domeric’s shoulder. “Domeric. You have to stop thinking things are always at their worst. Look up a little. Waymar would want you to look up. Stand a little straighter. Have a little hope.”

Domeric looked at the ceiling. There was a chandelier. He must have found it uninteresting because he looked down at the table again. Lord Royce continued. “And what’s this with the Freys. Lord Walder cannot be controlling everything. He has what, one-and-ninety name days? He cannot be making the decisions anymore. Stevron… my cousin Stevron, gods rest him, he would not have raised his sons to be like his father. Did you know, he squired here? For my grandfather. His mother was my father’s elder sister. My boy, have some faith in the Freys of the Crossing. Ser Walton has honor! Ser Steffon has honor! There are Freys with honor! I would not have allowed my niece to marry one if it were not so.”

“Ser Walton has Ser Ryman, Edmyn, Black Walder, Petyr, and Jinglebell the fool before him.”

“Cousin Ryman is a fat craven who closes his ears to the bickering between his sons. He would not do anything half so bold as to rebel against his king, surrounded by Rivermen in Tully country, with twenty thousand wolves at his gates! At least not the last time I saw him.”

“My lord, before I left Harrenhal, the Freys were wroth.” Domeric looked at Ser Mychel, who was drinking wine in the corner. He raised an eyebrow. “Lady Myranda has married a Frey?” Ser Mychel hid his face in his cup.

“Myranda? Good heavens, no, boy. Nestor shipped her off to Longbow to be the third Lady Hunter. No, I speak of Ryella. My Lorra’s niece. My goodbrother Yorick’s daughter. Ryella Royce Frey. She is here, and her children. You will meet her with the rest of my household on the morrow.”

Lord Royce turned his attention back to Sansa. “Your brother will have to bend the knee, my lady. But fear not. This mess with the Freys. It is not without fixing. It does not have to be as young Bolton tells it.”

Sansa nodded. “Thank you, my lord.” _I hope Lord Royce is right_, Sansa thought, while the men struck up a spirited discussion on the factions in the Frey family and where they would fall. _I hope Robb does not have to take the black. _Then she looked at Domeric. _But Domeric has spoken to Robb’s lords more recently. And Lord Royce has not. Robb has made mistakes. Jeyne Westerling and Theon Greyjoy. _Smirking, sneering Theon, who smacked serving girls on the rump and whored in Winter Town. _Who burned_ _Bran and Rickon. My brothers. Little boys._ Theon Greyjoy. Robb’s best friend. _He killed Bran and Rickon and Benfred Tallhart and Cley Cerwyn. _She tasted acid in her mouth again, and did not wonder anymore why Domeric wanted Robb to join the Watch.

She pictured Robb on his horse, arrayed all in black as he disappeared into the horizon and the vanishing Kingsroad. _ It will not be so bad. Jon is there. It will not be so bad. _She pursed her lips. _It will be cold. Robb may not like it. He will have to leave his wife, but Jon will be there. He loves Jon and he knows Jon. _Sansa pictured Jon and Robb together, pitching snowballs at each other in the yard, laughing with rosy cheeks.

Robb the brother was a much better picture than Robb the king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a lot going on here and at time the dialogue may sound confusing (who is speaking to whom). Sansa is trying to read a message so she is only hearing the conversation, not listening.
> 
> I know that AWOIAF says that no one, even Maesters, can read the runes, but that doesn't stop the First Men from keeping secrets from the grey rats (though let's be real it's probably a code someone invented during a First Men religious revival movement along the way that eventually fizzled out). Do they actually know what the runes say, as written? Hmmm....
> 
> Not sure how much of a change it is to have Mychel be at Runestone by midway thru ASOS. He is married in AFFC and that's not much later. 
> 
> I really hope Lord Royce doesn't come off as stupid here RE the Freys and the Boltons. He's walking the line between trying to provide factual information and manage how he talks to Sansa, a lady of higher station than he is (trying not to offend her, give her information about her family while also being gentle and courteous and mindful of the fact she is 14/15 years old and might be emotional about things) and also doesn't know very well, while also managing Domeric, who he actually knows on a personal level, and is clearly pretty stressed out.
> 
> Really the smart solution here would have been to feed them, send them off to guest rooms, and have separate discussions in the morning, but it was kind of late at night and Domeric really wanted his dinner and Lord Royce really wanted some of that intel. So an info dump happened.
> 
> Also in canon what the Freys did was a really shocking event. I'm pretty sure a septon was mentioned somewhere condemning it. I think reasonable people could have disagreed on what the Freys would have done post Robb's wedding to Jeyne. A lot of our views of the Freys are through Catelyn's eyes, and her opinion was based on what Hoster told her. Bronze Yohn can have a diffrent view, especially since the main line of Freys has Royce blood (Stevron and his sons Ryman, Jinglebell, and Walton, and all of their children) and as the head of house Royce his relative Ryella's marriage to a Frey would have needed his consent. [It's unkown what Perra and Ryella's relation to the senior and junior Royces are so I have taken liberties.] When we get Bronze Yohn's opinion on the RW in AFFC Alayne I, it's already after they have literally committed an abomination in the eyes of gods and men.
> 
> Also Sansa should probably tell Domeric that she likes him just fine with the beard.


	27. Domeric XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric meets the Runestone household and takes up a new identity.

Domeric woke up to loud banging on his chamber door. No, no, no, he didn’t want to wake up yet, not yet_, not yet, _it was his first full night somewhere with a decent featherbed under silken sheets and velvet coverlets and fine furs in nearly a year, his first full night in a properly staffed castle and not a tent or an inn or a crumbling ruin. _No war today, no running today, I just want to sleep today…_

“Ser Jonnel. Lord Royce requires you in his solar. You must attend him.”

He was about to roll over but then he caught himself on the post – _stupid, that’s a right hard knock when I fall – _for true castle beds were higher than anything all but the finest inns had to offer, and the pallets in damp Moat Cailin and drafty Harrenhal were hardly taller than a traveling cot that came with a standard tent, a mere hand or three off the ground.

“Ser Jonnel. It is the hour of the nightingale.”

Domeric sat up and ripped the sheets from his body. Now his legs were awake too, _it’s cold, it’s cold_, so he carefully slid his feet into the deerskin slippers that had been left for him so the stone floor couldn’t shock his toes.

“Good morning, Ser Mychel. I shall be out anon.” Domeric called out to Waymar’s door and looked around Waymar’s chambers. He’d seen them once or twice before, when he’d been four-and-ten. He wasn’t sure whether anything had changed. It had reeked of dust when Mychel let him in. The servants had already brought up his things, his own armor neatly bundled in the trunk at the foot of the bed, his own cloaks hooked by the door, his own clothes hanging in the wardrobe.

_The servants can see I am Domeric Bolton. The guards know I am Domeric Bolton. What use is it to be Jonnel Holt? _He picked out a plain shirt, a pair of dark breeches, his one bronze Ryswell doublet, a dark jerkin. _Jonnel Holt would not wear the horse’s head. Jonnel Holt wore white and blue. But Jonnel Holt is dead, and it is Domeric Bolton’s fault. _

A Reacher or a Westerman had dealt the blow, but Roose Bolton had given the order, and Domeric Bolton had said nothing. _I should have told Lord Robett and Ser Helman that the folly was not our king’s._

Domeric had met Jonnel Holt on the march to the Ruby Ford. The Holts were sworn to the Manderlys, and Ser Jonnel had lived in White Harbor. He’d seen three-and-twenty namedays and had been serving at New Castle as a household knight. He’d had a sweetheart, a merchant’s girl, and he’d worn her favor over his heart too. A white weirwood branch on the blue sea. His favorite song had been _Oh, Lay My Sweet Love Down on the Grass, _and that’s how Domeric had remembered him, but Ser Jonnel stopped asking for songs once they’d learned about Lady Donella, after they’d left the Twins. They’d sparred in the Flowstone Yard, but the good-natured words never returned, and now they never would, for Jonnel Holt died in the fields outside Duskendale.

His blue rondels had been for sale, there in the Duskendale square, underneath the pine trees of Tallhart. Domeric would have liked to have bought them, but he wouldn’t have known who to give them to, and besides, no Bolton was welcome in White Harbor.

Domeric dressed and ignored the large Myrish glass Waymar had hung prominently on the wall while he splashed water on his face and washed out his mouth. He wouldn’t get to shave anyway, and he had to be Ser Jonnel, who had a beard. Ser Jonnel had been tall, dark of hair and pale of eye, but his pale was pale green, like the seafoam, not ghostly pale, like ice.

“I can’t wait to get this beard off,” he’d said as Maester Helliweg had smeared a poultice on his hand. Domeric had misliked the pink blooming on his palm he’d glimpsed after he’d stamped his horsehead brooch into the Royce bronze wax.

“Lad, that’s not coming off. Domeric Bolton is not at Runestone,” Bronze Yohn had countered. “Now, which Northman am I sheltering?”

Domeric had looked over to Sansa, who had been sealing her letters with plain white globs. “Jonnel,” he’d said without a second thought.

“And who is this Jonnel? Why is he at Runestone?”

Domeric had to think about that. The only Jonnel Domeric had come to know passing well was Ser Jonnel Holt. “Ser Jonnel Holt took a wound at Duskendale. A farmer’s family found him lying in the fields, and when he was well enough to travel, he didn’t know where the Northmen had gone. He sold the armor off his back to pay the farmer and make passage for White Harbor, but there wasn’t enough coin, so he was dropped off in Gulltown.”

“And now Ser Jonnel is in my pay, because I will hear when he can go North again, or where he might join his king.”

“Aye.”

“Who must I be, my lord?” Sansa had asked.

Lord Royce had paused before speaking. “I know who I would like you to be, my lady,” he had said. “But there is someone whose permission I must ask first. We will find out on the morrow.”

Sansa had been curious, and Domeric was too.

“Ser Jonnel – ” but before Mychel could finish Domeric unbarred the door and swung it open, ready for the day. Then Mychel had placed his hand on his chin and started sniggering, eyes crinkling up and watering at the sides. “Have Andar teach you how to make that look better.”

_Fuck you, Mychel. _“Aye.”

Mychel and Domeric were the last to arrive at Lord Yohn’s solar that morning. Ysilla opened the door. Her hair was different, the caramel-colored locks braided up into a half-ball behind her head instead of half down, like she favored. There were red ribbons woven through her braids, and she wore a necklace of pretty red stones. She smiled at him. “Good morning, Domeric,” she said, her thick dark brows arching to her forehead. When she closed the door behind Mychel she looked at the ground and muttered a quick “my lord”.

“You’re here! Good, good!” said Lord Yohn, from the head of the table by the hearth. “Take a seat! Break your fast!”

Sansa sat to Lord Yohn’s right at the place of honor. Domeric dipped his head to her, and his chest hurt when he saw the bright twinkle in her eye, the demure smile on her lips. She was wearing one of the gowns they’d bought in Duskendale, the navy, and her own jewelry. The bodice hugged her chest, and two silver direwolves of Stark ran together down from her collarbones, chained at the tails, their snouts pointing to the top of the line that marked the meeting of her breasts. Half her hair was braided away from her face, and the rest streamed around her shoulders, but even from across the room he could see the pale pink and blood red ribbons woven throughout.

_Those are for me, _he thought. _So lovely. _But he couldn’t stare too long. It was not proper. He had to look away.

Spread on the table were an assortment of breads, dark and light, plain and with herbs and flowers and nuts baked in. There was berry jelly and honey and maple syrup, mashed oats, bacon and ham and sausages and eggs, dried meats and cheeses hard and soft, golden and white. Domeric breathed in the fragrant air, and his stomach gave a loud growl.

Mychel dragged a chair out for Ysilla, and it screeched when he pushed it back in. “My lady,” he said, half grimacing.

“My lord,” she said, almost under her breath. Mychel sat next to her, and the empty chair next to him could only be for Domeric. Mychel and Ysilla both made the sign of the star and gave thanks to the Smith, and then Mychel started to heap food onto Ysilla’s trencher.

Next to Ysilla was a familiar face he hadn’t expected. Cassie Redfort eyed him from over Mychel and Ysilla’s shoulders. “Hello, Domeric,” she said into her honeyed oats. She put her spoon down and covered the lower half of her face, barely restraining a mealy-mouthed giggle.

“Hello, Cassandra.”

Seated at the foot of the table was Ser Andar. Domeric nodded at him. Next to Sansa sat a lady who looked enough like Ysilla to be an elder sister. She wore her hair in the same half-ball of braids as Ysilla, but her ribbons were blue and grey. That must have been Lady Ryella.

“Hello, ser,” she said. “I have heard that we are kin.”

“Good morning, my lady,” he said. “My father has married Walda, daughter of Merrett.”

“And I am married to Arwood, son of Hosteen. Your siblings will be second cousins to my children.”

“Aye.” Domeric served himself lavender honey bread and bacon. “Ser Hosteen and Ser Arwood are good men.”

“They are,” Lady Ryella smiled. “A good father. A doting grandfather.” The fresh breakfast was better than the leftover dinner.

“We were just discussing,” said Lord Yohn, “my newest granddaughter. Lorra, Andar named her. Born last week! Strong girl, strong lungs. Strong mother!”

“Congratulations,” Domeric said. He was glad he did not have to ask after Lady Bellamyn’s absence. “She is still resting?”

“Yes,” Andar said. “Resting, and well. It is such a joy,” and this was directed at Mychel, “to be a father.”

That was a strange comment. Mychel had always wanted children. Domeric nodded and started eating. But for the clanks of forks and the tearing of bread, the air over the table hung in stiff silence.

“Ryella,” Lord Yohn started again. “Now that you have had time – to acquaint yourself with our guest, her situation. I must ask you. She needs a name. Could she be Danelle?”

Lady Ryella’s eyebrows knit together, her lower lip quivering. “Danelle,” she whispered. “Yes. I suppose. Yes, the red hair, it works. Of course. Uncle, Princess Sansa.”

Lord Yohn stood and put a hand on Lady Ryella’s shoulder. “Thank you, Ryella.”

Sansa glanced sideways towards Lady Ryella. “Who is Danelle?”

Lady Ryella bit her lip. “Danelle was my sister Kella’s natural daughter. Danelle Rivers. Her father was Danwell Whent, Lady Shella’s son. They met at the tourney. He claimed her, and would have wed Kella, but then it happened. The rebellion. Then he died. And the babe died. And then Kella too.” She gave Sansa a shaky smile. “The Whents – they have that lovely red hair. And the cheekbones. Lady Wynafrei has them. Danwell’s sister. She married another Danwell. At the Twins.” Her eyes lingered over Sansa’s hair. “Yes, you could be Danelle. She’d be seven-and-ten, but you could be a young seven-and-ten.”

Lady Ryella turned her attention back to her breakfast. Lord Yohn addressed Sansa again.

“My lady, is that all right with you? To be a natural-born girl?” His bushy eyebrows were high on his face. “Natural born, but the blood of Runestone. And the blood of Harrenhal. Your grandmother’s blood. I can think of no better protection for you.”

Sansa flushed pink, so sweet, all the way down to her neckline, and looked at the table. “It is all right with me, Lord Royce. You have my thanks.”

Lord Yohn clapped his hands together. “It’s settled then! While you are here, you are my niece, Lady Danelle, and all of Runestone shall know it. Just called back from the Motherhouse now that Lady Shella has died.” He turned to Domeric. “Lady Danelle Rivers, and Ser Jonnel Holt. My long-away niece and my newest knight.”

Domeric was just moving to help himself to more sausages when the bells in the sept started to ring. Lord Yohn rose, and then everyone else did. Domeric put down the serving fork and rose along with them.

“My boy – it’s all right. Keep eating! You can go to the godswood when you’ve had your fill,” Lord Yohn said.

But Domeric shook his head. “Ser Jonnel kept the Seven. I can go to the godswood in the evening.”

They entered the Runestone sept under the statue of the Stranger. The early dawn light filtered through the seven-sided dome overhead, hitting the crystal chandelier just so to bathe the worshippers in rainbows. It seemed that half the population of Runestone was stuffed into the pews. The seven-tone scale of bells hailed the arrival of Septon Lucos, and one attending septa, each holding one candle. The rest of the servants had morning duties and would assist at the rite at noon.

Domeric exhaled. One septon and one septa meant that it was a low rite, and a low rite had short form single-tone chant, rather than long-form seven-tone chant, and did not take as long as a high rite on major feasts. The high rite had three septons and three septas and one godsworn robed so loosely that their sex could not be known. High or low, he appreciated septs and observing the Rite of the Seven every once in a while. The old gods had no fixed prayers, but the Andals’ prayed in poetry.

Septon Lucos and the septa reached the altars of the Father and the Mother, ascended the steps, and knelt, and the congregation followed. They clasped hands and began to recite the High Praise of Hugor in Old Andalosian. “_I go up to the altar of the One, unto the One who giveth light to all my days…” _

Domeric’s eyes wandered to the statues and their moonstone eyes. He hadn’t been to the Starry Sept of Oldtown or the Great Sept of Baelor or even the royal sept in the Red Keep, but he’d been to Harrenhal and New Castle and the Twins, and by his lights the septs of the Vale were more beautiful than those others he had seen. Perhaps that wasn’t fair. The sept at Harrenhal was unwieldy and ill-maintained, the stained-glass windows caked with so much dust you couldn’t see the colors anymore, and the statues were likewise blackened over and their crystal eyes dull for want of polish. But Harrenhal had been occupied for the better part of a year, and the Lannisters had killed the Whent septon, and Ser Wylis and the Manderly men alone had gone there to pray after the Northmen had taken control. Perhaps at one point during the castle’s history, Harrenhal’s sept had been grand.

The sept at the Twins was small, too small for a family and household so large, its dome made of plain clear glass, its statues wood with cracking varnish and carved with utilitarian disinterest. They didn’t even have crystal eyes or a crystal chandelier. The statues at the Twins’ sept’s eyes were smooth river stones, and its chandelier was an iron wheel with seven spokes for seven candles. When Domeric had sat there at his father’s wedding it had been clear to him that the mercenary Freys’ hearts had never been moved by the Smith or his other faces.

The first time he had seen the Sept of the Snows at White Harbor – aye, the first sept he had ever seen – he had thought it the most beautiful building in the world. The statues were all white marble, like men and women frozen alive in ice, and the great domed roof shone dappled greens and blues and purples. The silver chandelier curled like seaweed and sparkled with sea glass, as did the Seven’s eyes. In the sconce in the wall behind each marble statue, a mural of some scene from the Seven-Pointed Star was painted. Domeric had never seen any paintings so true-to-life.

“The style comes from the Reach,” Lady Wynafryd had told him. “When the Snowy Sept was built, House Manderly brought craftsmen from Oldtown to model it after the Starry Sept. The materials had to be different, but the masons and carpenters made it a fine likeness. The paintings – the style was developed outside Highgarden. The Gardeners had the best painters in the realm in their patron. After the Reacher painters left when winter came a thousand years ago, the North lost the craft. They did not leave any apprentices here.”

That was before Domeric had arrived in the Vale. “Septs in the Vale are still built in the style of Old Andalos,” his new friend Mychel had explained while giving him a tour of the Redfort. Domeric hadn’t known much about the Faith of the Seven then. “The stained glass overhead shows us the Seven Heavens, and the tiles beneath our feet the Seven Hells. The statues are carved in a specific way, with proportions that are not quite human. Because the Seven are not quite human. They were human, and gods, all at the same time. Outside the Vale, they carve the Seven to look like true people, but it’s not quite right that way. It’s all… human, profane. Too real. When you add the flourishes, you lose the purity of the message. The clarity of the light. The statues – they’re supposed to look like more than people. More than real. Because they’re gods.”

Domeric hadn’t really understood what Mychel had meant back then. Not until he had returned to White Harbor. The Sept of the Snows was beautiful for ostentation’s sake, to display the might and riches of the Manderly family. The fine detail, the immersive depth to the murals, they were all distractions from the gods – their words, their light, their presence. At the sept at the Redfort – aye, and here at Runestone too – every detail aided prayer or inspired contemplation of the mysteries of the Seven-who-are-One. No inch of space was wasted. The sanctity was palpable. Domeric could achieve a clarity of thought and a stillness of heart in the septs of the Vale that he usually only found kneeling before a heart tree with a cut on his palm.

He saw Mychel’s head and shoulders sink down. It was time to kneel again.

Hands knit together and eyes on the ground, Domeric eyed the mosaic floor beneath his knees. A long-horned demon with a forked tongue and a turgid member clawed at a golden-haired girl in the buff, face twisted in ecstatic agony, the pair scorched by winds of flame.

_“I confess, O One, O Seven, that I have greatly sinned. I have let darkness into my heart, I have blinded mine own eyes, I am as one dead who walks. In my mind and on my lips, in the deeds of my right hand and the failures of my left. Forgive me, O Father, for my injustice. Slay in me, O Warrior, all my cowardice. Strike out of me, O Smith, the sloth in my heart. Have mercy, O Mother, on my wrathful soul. Renew in me, O Maiden, my innocence. Grant me, O Crone, the wisdom to tread the path of Light, the way of Truth. Vanquish, O Stranger, the darkness in me. Free me, O Stranger, from my sin, from my death. O Septons, o Septas, o my brothers and o my sisters, pray for me, to the Seven-who-are-One.”_

The demon was laughing at him, its tongue flapping, eyes menacing, spittle glistening around its mouth. Beads of sweat formed beneath his collar, on the nape of his neck. He didn’t want to look down anymore. Overhead was the hard-eyed Warrior, presiding over the Heaven of Humility. The dawn light changed, and in the mirrors of the chandelier Domeric saw the serene face of the Maiden winking at him from the cloudy Heaven of Chastity. Something in his throat tightened, and he didn’t want to look up anymore either.

He decided that later, he would tell Mychel to trim his hair and brush the lint from his shoulders.

Septon Lucos began to chant a passage from the Seven-Pointed Star. The selection was a dialogue between Father and the Crone on justice. Could one be just without wisdom? No, it would end, one could not, for both the proper determination and execution of the just required wisdom. He had heard this reading before. It was one of the passages set aside for squires to meditate on in preparation to stand vigil for their anointment.

_I have not had a wise thought since Harrenhal, _he thought, _and I have let injustice stand. The maester, the armorer, the goodwife, and the steward, and the serving girls. They were innocent, and I watched. I obeyed my father, my captain, but I betrayed my king and my fellows and I smiled. Now there are a thousand men under rocks by the sea. Fathers and brothers and lovers and friends. Harry and Lord Robett and Ser Helman and Ser Kyle. Ser Jonnel. But to follow my king would send more good men to their graves._

His eyes flicked to the right, towards where the women sat. After the most fleeting glimpse of red he dragged his eyes back to the lint on Mychel’s shoulders, but then his gaze dropped to the floor, and he saw the lusty demon again.

_I have not lived up to my vows. _His chest felt tight, and his breaths were coming in fast and shallow.

If he counted all the specks of lint on Mychel’s shoulders, perhaps the rite would be over, and he could have the sense knocked into him in the yard.

There were only three-and-twenty specks, and Septon Lucos was just getting to the Creed of the Faith of the Seven. It was time to stand again.

“_I believe in the One, the One who is One, and Three, and Seven. The One was the light, and the One made the light, and the light split first into Two, then into Three, then into Seven. The Man, the Woman, the Child. The Father, the Warrior, the Smith. The Mother, the Maiden, and the Crone. The Stranger. The Man made the world, and the Woman brought forth the life, and the life plunged the world into darkness and sin, and the Child of death showed his face. Deep into the age of dark and sin and death the Man came down from heaven in the heart of a star and touched the earth on Hugor’s Hill in Andalos, at the Spring of the Rhoyne. When the star struck the earth, the star broke, and the Woman rose. The Man took up a sword, and he brought peace, and the Man was the Warrior. And Hugor took up his sword and followed the Warrior. The Man took up a hammer, and he built up his throne and his altar, and the Man was the Smith. And Hugor took up his hammer and followed the Smith. Then the Man took up judgment scales, and sat his throne, and the Man was the Father. And Hugor knelt before the throne and followed the Father. The Woman walked through the dark, and light was in her face, and in her soul, and the Woman was the Maiden. And Hugor repented of his sins and confessed to the Maiden. The Woman knelt in the dark, and the light came forth from her womb, and the light shone from her breast, and the Woman was the Mother. And the Mother absolved Hugor of his sins. The Woman looked out at the dark, and she preserved the light in a crystal lantern, and the Woman was the Crone. And the Crone showed Hugor the path of Light, the way of Truth._

_I believe in the Child, the Child of light, the Child of death. He was born a man from the Mother’s womb, conceived by light alone. He came of age in a time of dark and sin, when the blind dead walked the earth and harried the gates of the Man’s kingdom. Then the Crone knew the time had come, and she hung her lantern on the gate. Then the Man drove his sword through the Woman’s heart, and the light shone forth from the Woman, and the sword glowed with rainbow light, and the Woman ascended to the Starry Heaven. The Man knelt before the Child, and the Child took up the Man’s sword, and sliced off the Man’s head, and the light shone forth from the Man, and the Man ascended to the Starry Heaven. And Hugor watched, and Hugor knelt, and the Child opened the gate, and the rainbow sword cast the souls of the dead to the Seven Heavens and the Seven Hells. When all the dead had fallen, the Child returned to the Man’s hall, and touched the Man’s sword to Hugor’s shoulder, and Hugor became the first knight. Then the Child hid his face, and fled out the gate. And the Child was the Stranger, and he meets every soul at death._

_I believe the words of Hugor of the Hill. When the Woman rose, and the Man rose, and the Child fled, the stars shone in the sky, and the night ended, and the day sun returned with the dawn. After seven days and seven nights the Father came down from the sky with seven stars, and placed them on Hugor’s brow, and bade Hugor to sit on his throne. And Hugor became the first king. Then the Crone came down from the sky and gave Hugor her crystal lantern, and bade Hugor to show the world the Path of Light, the Way of Truth. And Hugor became the first septon. Then the Maiden came down from the sky and brought forth a girl supple as a willow with eyes like blue stars. And Hugor took her as his wife. And the Mother came down from the sky and blessed the girl’s womb, and she bore Hugor forty-four sons._ _The Warrior came down from the sky and gave each son strength of arms, and the Smith came down from the sky and wrought each a suit of iron plate. And Hugor’s sons brought peace and the Light of the Seven to the world._

_I believe in the Path of Light, the Way of Truth. I believe that sins can be forgiven. I believe in the Seven Heavens. I believe in the Seven Hells. I believe in the Father’s judgment. I believe that the dead can be conquered and that souls can live free. I believe that the Seven shall return to set the world to rights. I believe that the Light of the Seven will always prevail.”_

The morning sun poured forth through the dome, and the sept was filled with light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Domeric would respect the Faith of the Seven (in a similar way to how Ned did) because of his time at the Redfort, his love of poetry, and his commitment to knighthood. And he gets really into method acting (?) so ofc he'd go whole ham with being Jonnel. And ofc he'd pick someone named Jonnel because the last historical Sansa Stark was married to a Jonnel. Spending time with the Redforts during the most formative years of his life would have gone a long way into shaping his moral intuitions and values. In other words, they memed on him.
> 
> One goal I had with this story was to explore the Faith of the Seven more. I really think it was one of the least fleshed out religions in the books, and the lack of detail is disproportionate to its supposed in-world importance. It was one thing that fell flat for me in GRRM's worldbuilding. Catelyn and Davos seemed to be the only southerners who actually seemed like pious people, and the Middle Ages were chock full of pious people from the nobility to the peasantry. The Ironborn, Northerners, and Melisandre all have their religions inform their thoughts and world views much more, and that feels more realistic. No godless man may sit the Seastone Chair, and all that. For all that the Faith of the Seven is the dominant religion in Westeros, the Lannister characters, who make up most of our southern POVs, all seem like postmodern agnostics both inside their heads and in their actions viewed through other people (ie Sansa). You can't have a whole civilization of people who think that religion is just 'pious bleating', as Sandor, Cersei, Tyrion, and Littlefinger would put it. Elite people have to be sincerely bought in or else everything would crumble. 
> 
> IMO the Vale would be one of the most pious places in Westeros because it was the birthplace of the Faith in Westeros. If you compare it to the real world it would be like how France is considered the Eldest Daughter of the (Roman Catholic) Church even though Rome is the Holy See, like the Starry Sept/Sept of Baelor are the seat of the Faith. The inspiration for the design of the sept, Mychel's speech about religious architecture and art came from Titus Burckhart's the Foundation of Christian Art, which is a great book with great pictures. I picked it up several years after visiting Europe and it really put into perspective how much the Christians of late antiquity and the medieval period synthesized theology into physical craftsmanship and the manipulation of light, perspective, and space to produce buildings worthy of housing worship, doing homage to God, and inspiring/conducing prayer and contemplation. 
> 
> One thing I plan on introducing in this story is diversity within the Faith of the Seven (not to give away the plot). Even among the Catholic countries of Medieval Europe united under one Pope there were different styles of vestments, art/architecture, and variations of saying Mass. So I think there would be different forms of the Rite of the Seven across the Seven Kingdoms, just like there were different forms of the Mass in different European countries (Hispanic Rite, Ambrosian Rite, Lyonese Rite, those belonging to the various orders - Benedictine, Carmelite, Dominican, etc). 
> 
> I admit to blatantly plagiarizing words and the structure of the Mass of Trent (aka the Tridentine Rite/the Latin Mass/Extraordinary Form) in designing the Rite of the Seven. It's just so beautiful and I think it's also what GRRM would have been imagining when designing a fantasy religion based off of Catholicism. The elements most deliberately taken were the beginning ("Introibo ad altare Dei, Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam" / "I go up into the altar of God, unto God who giveth joy unto my youth"), the Confiteor ("I confess to almighty God...") and the Credo ("I believe...").
> 
> The Creed, which defines what the Faith of the Seven is in essence, was taken from the Azor Ahai/Long Night myth as well as other AWOIAF references to the Faith of the Seven, as well as Parmenides' 'On Truth'. Parmenides was a presocratic who (may have) pioneered the idea of monadic God as being the the light by which we know truth in Western Philosophy. Plato has a dialogue named after him. The unread reading prior to Septon Lucos' sermon was inspired by Plato's dialogues and the Book of Job.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story with readership, kudos, comments. If I havent gotten to your comment yet I promise I will. An unexpected family event happened this week (everyone's ok) and my family will need to relocate within our metro soon, so things have been busy. Moving forward I might need to update this biweekly in order to facilitate that so please bear with me. Also a HUGE shoutout to TwinHuginHelmet for making aweseome fanart of Domeric's armor. Thank you!!! :) The link is in the comment left on ch 26.


	28. Domeric XVII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric spends a typical day at Runestone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a slightly graphic description of human sacrifice.

“What happened to Mya, Mychel? How have you come to be Ysilla’s husband?”

Domeric and Mychel were walking to the yard, after having taken their leave of Lord Royce and the ladies. The other household knights and guards had already shuffled out of the sept, but Domeric had waited for Mychel to exit along with the Royce family, who always left last. After kneeling to exit the pew, Mychel had waited for Ysilla, and Ysilla had taken his arm, and they had knelt together between the Mother and the Father. It was then that Domeric had understood. The strange behavior at breakfast, the red ribbons and the red stone necklace. They were married.

“Robar died.” Mychel’s bitterness was obvious.

“Cassie could not have wed Ser Albar?”

“Lord Yohn wanted a child of his body for the alliance.”

“And who is Cassie to wed now?”

“That remains to be seen. The matter has consumed Father’s attention.” They passed through the gate leading to the ward with the training courtyard. “She is here as the steadfast companion of my lady wife. I fear I am the sort of husband who makes poor company.”

Domeric frowned. “How did it come to be you, Mychel? You are the fourth son. Surely Jon – ”

“Jon is wed,” Mychel finished for him. “Jon is wed, as Creighton and Jasper are wed, and so this duty has fallen to me. And I have done my duty.”

They reached the armory, and Mychel opened the door. He scanned the room and pulled down a kit.

“This will fit you, I think.” All the squires were in the yard already, so they’d have no help donning their training armor this morning. While they were strapping on their greaves and cuisses, Mychel spoke again.

“When we heard Robar died, Jon saw what was coming next before I did. He left in the night and rode for Egen Keep. Then we had a bird from Lord Egen. Jon and Ellyn showed up in his hall with a bloody sheet, and they were brought before the septon within the hour.” He sighed. “I did everything right. Father granted me permission, and Lord Nestor too. I would have been one of Lord Nestor’s knights at the Gates of the Moon. But Jon thought to provoke Lord Egen’s wrath to achieve his own ends, and nobody would become wroth over a ruined bastard girl.”

“I am sorry, Mychel.” Then, “Does Mya know?”

“About what? The marriage?”

“That you would have married her. That it had been approved.”

“Of course not. She cannot read, Dom.”

“And you cannot go off and tell her.”

“No.”

“I should not have encouraged you.” Mychel helped Domeric strap on his breastplate, and then Domeric did the same for his friend.

“No. That wasn’t wrong of you. A fourth son has a measure of freedom, after all.” Domeric tightened a pair of loose straps. “More than a second son.” He didn’t need to ask about why Robar had run off to the Reach.

“It’s not the worst,” Mychel said. “I’m a landed knight now. With a decent income. I’m moving up in the world.” He smiled sadly and helped Domeric adjust a loose piece of the kit. “At least one of us will have our lady.”

“If her brother allows it.”

“He has to. Do you think anyone else would have her?”

“Mychel. On my _honor_ \- ” 

Mychel regarded him with a flat expression. “Doesn’t matter if you swear on your honor. She was with you alone for a fortnight. That’s enough to ruin a girl. Besides, you ran away from the army. How many leagues between Duskendale and King’s Landing? Why else would you do that if not to…?” Mychel puffed out his cheeks and changed the subject. “I had thought – after those letters from Stannis came, Mya was a child of King Robert’s body, the whole Vale knows it, she was to go to court. We could have pulled in for either Stannis or Renly. Better both, behind Stannis. And there was Edric Storm too. They could have come after Princess Shireen and whatever babe the Tyrell girl whelped. But not with the red woman there.”

“The red woman?”

“Stannis’ foreign whore from Essos. A red priestess, from Asshai. Lady Melisandre. She burned the sept at Dragonstone. And their godswood, too.” Then Mychel scowled. “She has seduced Stannis away from the Faith. She is his true queen, not Lady Selyse. And she means to drive the Faith from Westeros. The old gods, too. She means to have us all prancing around the fire.”

“How do you know this?”

“The Fat Flower said so. In his letter to Lord Royce, telling him of Robar’s death. Before the Knight of Flowers killed him, Robar swore to all that it was a shadow from some foul Asshai’i sorcery that slew Renly, not the Maid of Tarth. The Tyrells looked into it afterwards, and found the rumors true. Not of Renly’s death, but of the red woman. And Stannis’ apostasy.” He scoffed. “The Vale will not have Stannis for its king.”

“And yet Bronze Yohn despises the Crown and our future Tyrell queen.”

“Bronze Yohn thinks that the Vale should have seceded from the realm as an independent kingdom allied to the North and the Trident. That’s whenever he isn't saying that we should have all united against the Lannisters. You heard what he said.”

“And you?”

“Mayhaps ten moons ago. Now? No. I see no reason not to keep the Crown’s peace.” Both armored up, they strode outside. “Besides, can you picture it? Little Lord Robert? King of Mountain and Vale? Or Harry?”

_No_. They both sniggered while they started out into the yard, where the of Bronze Yohn’s knights were stretching and warming up. Domeric and Mychel joined them. First, a lap around the yard in full armor, to wind the lungs and color the cheeks, and then a sprint up the stairs to the walls and back down again. Then, ten horse vaults, ten each of one man and two. Next came somersaults, ten in a row, and then sledgehammer strikes, stone throws, and punches, in ten, five, and thirty. Last came the ladder climb and the wall climb, and then it was time to spar.

“Lads!” Strong Sam Stone cried, Runestone’s grizzled and burly master-at-arms. “Today we have a new knight among us. State your name, ser.”

“Ser Jonnel Holt. Of White Harbor.” _He does not know me with the beard, and yet I’ve been here many a time. _

“Ser Jonnel Holt of White Harbor! Welcome to Runestone. In my lord of Royce’s pay for the nonce, are you?”

“Aye, ser. Until I have the coin to buy myself a kit and passage to the Stark army.”

“Splendid! We’ll return you to Stark in better fighting shape than he left you!” Ser Sam scanned the knights and squires and pages collected around the yard. “Now who will spar with Ser Jonnel?”

“I will spar with him,” called Mychel.

“Ser Mychel! Excellent. Thank you.” Then all the knights knelt and offered up their spars to the Warrior, as was custom in the Vale.

Domeric and Mychel found a clear patch of grass on the far side of the yard and began to dance. Mychel was the swordsman with the greater skill, but Domeric was a hand taller, and bulkier, if only just, and he knew Mychel and his movements. But Mychel had been training every day, and Domeric hadn’t had a proper spar since Duskendale, and that wasn’t a spar, that was to the _death, _and there was little time for sparring while on the march.

“Come at me, _Jonnel_, you can do better – ” Mychel goaded, and their swords met again and again and again, but there was no beating Mychel, Mychel had trained under _Lyn Corbray_, for moons and moons, and Domeric was being pushed towards a wall, and then he was on his back, and his sword was somewhere out of his reach and on the grass –

“Yield!” He shouted. “I yield.” And then he heard clapping behind him, and Mychel helped him off of his arse.

“Ser Jonnel! Ser Jonnel! You just lasted longer against Redfort here than anyone else in the yard has since he’s been here! Ser Jonnel! Excellent!” It was Strong Sam Stone and a few of Bronze Yohn’s knights. “Now, you still yielded, you still lost, but ‘twas such a showing, my good ser. I don’t know how it’s done in White Harbor, but here in the Vale, when you lose a spar, you say a prayer to the Smith to help your work and a prayer to the Maiden to give you something to work for. And then you give me seventy-seven push-ups. Can you do that, lad?”

“Aye, ser.” Domeric ambled to the edge of the yard and dropped to his knees.

When the morning was done his muscles were singing and all the threads in his clothes were stuck to his skin. It had been a good sparring session. He trounced Petyr Shett and Guy Coldwater, barely edged over Elwood Tollett and drew with Bryce Belmore. He even had a go with Mychel again, and he still lost, but he lasted even longer that time, and Strong Sam Stone clapped him on the back.

“A right hard veteran you are, Ser Jonnel,” he said. “Not like these summer knights!”

Then there were too many people speaking to him. Too many at once, bombarding him with questions about the Young Wolf, the war, all of it. He looked around, and all the eyes were on him, and he didn’t want to meet any of them, so he stared at the space between Mychel and Ser Sam’s head.

“I – ” he started. “I only saw the Young Wolf once, at Moat Cailin. The wolf was larger than any I’ve ever seen. No sorcery by my lights. Then I went with Ser Wylis. In the eastern host. I wasn’t with the Young Wolf. He went west. We fought on the Green Fork, and Ser Wylis was captured, but I made it back to the Twins. To Moat Cailin. But many didn’t.” He bit his lip. “After Moat Cailin we went to Harrenhal. Lord Bolton, he, I mean, the Goat – he made a deal with Lord Bolton. Turned his cloak. Against the Lannisters. So there was no fighting then. And that was good. And we held Harrenhal, for a time. Then I went to Duskendale, with half of Ser Wylis’ men.”

“And then?”

“How many men did you kill?”

“What was it like?”

His good mood was gone. Domeric scowled. “It was awful. They came at us from over the hill. Ambushed us. We couldn’t see them. I didn’t count how many I killed. Too fast. And they killed more. We lost. They took my friend, or killed him. I was lucky to get away.” He didn’t want to talk anymore.

After the knights and squires returned the training armor to the armory and bathed in the common bath, Ser Sam took him aside and sat next to him on one of the benches.

“I’m sorry to have put you in that position, lad,” he said. “Shouldn’t have mentioned it. The war. ‘Twas meant as a compliment on your skills.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, ser. The compliment was welcome.”

“Yes, but it stirred up the lads. I should have known. Their questions, they were not welcome.”

“No offense was taken, ser. I was of a mind with them. Before.”

“And now you are not.”

“No.”

“This your first war, lad?”

“Aye.”

Ser Sam gave a small sigh. “I was the same way. After the Stepstones. My first war. We took a ship, Old Lord Royce and the rest of us, and we were boarded. Old Lord Royce was slain, and most of us went down below, and the rest, we seven – we fought them off, the Jolly Fellows, and we would have sunk if not for Lord Grafton’s ship. Most of the knights I had grown up with went to the deep that day. My friends. We’d all been so hungry to go.”

“For glory.” Domeric was not sure this conversation was welcome. He just wanted to get to the hall and have his midday meal, but the courteous thing to do was to let Runestone’s grizzled old man-at-arms keep talking.

Ser Sam studied him, and Domeric studied Ser Sam. Ser Sam had a lined and craggy face, salt-and pepper hair down to his ears and parted to one side. He had a neatly trimmed mustache that stopped sharp before the edges of his lips, and grey stubble was growing on his cleft chin and strong jaw. Ser Sam’s neck was thick, and his arms were corded with muscle even under his thick wool sleeves. Built like an aurochs bred for size, he made Domeric feel like a river reed.

_He wants to talk at me and I cannot stop it._

“Yes. After that – I didn’t want to fight anymore. It was all pointless, I thought. There was no glory to be found on these rocks in the middle of the Narrow Sea. I fought for my lord. I fought for my friends. Who would sing of my glory when they were gone? The Iron Throne was far away, and ‘twas rare for the king to come to Runestone. A dragon was a dragon. It wasn’t like with the mountain clans. When you’re just a green bastard boy no one tells you why you’re marching.” 

“Your mind has changed.”

“Lord Jon changed it.” Ser Sam reached under his shirt, and pulled on a chain. “When we made port again, he took us aside, us Royce men. ‘You lost your liege lord out there,’ he told us, ‘and your fellows. Most of you don’t want to fight anymore. I can see it on your faces. But I ask you to fight for me, the liege of your liege, if you cannot fight for your king and your countrymen from outside the Vale.’

“Then he told us, in plain words, what the war was about. Protecting these Seven Kingdoms from those who would hurt them. From those who would steal and rape and burn their way across our country – even the Vale – on the promises of land and keeps and women. Of riches. Because that is what Maelys the Monstrous would have brought with him. The Golden Company, and the sellswords who joined them. Every kingdom in the realm saw men flee into the east with the black dragon. The Vale too. It was more frank words about the world than any one of us had heard from a lord. Then Lord Jon said, ‘If you cannot fight for me, I ask you to fight for the Maiden. For the innocents she loves. For our folk across the sea. Will you fight for the Maiden?’ And not one of us refused. So then Lord Jon learned all of our names, bid us all to kneel, and knighted us himself. Even a green bastard boy like me. And then he took his Maiden’s seplet off his wrist, broke it into pieces, and gave us each a charm. And we joined the Arryn camp.”

Ser Sam pulled the chain out and showed him a charm next to his crystal Seven-pointed star. Its back was a smooth-cut emerald, inlaid with a silver Seven-pointed star. Its front was a fine silver carving of the Maiden with two emeralds for her eyes.

“This is an Arryn treasure,” Domeric said.

“It is,” said Ser Sam. “And now it will be yours.” Ser Sam took the chain off and removed the charm, and held it out in his hand.

“I cannot accept this,” Domeric said immediately. A sour taste settled over his tongue, and it was as if he was three-and-ten again, desparately trying to avoid the young and eager Septon Vortimer. _These are not my gods._ _I do not want this. _“I do not deserve – ”

“Of course you deserve, lad.” Ser Sam put a hand on Domeric’s shoulder. “Think not of it. The Maiden moved me.”

“Ser. I do not know what to say.” _I cannot say no._

“I think you do, lad.”

“Thank you. Ser Sam.” He put the charm away.

The rest of the day passed in relative ease. Shortly after his conversation with Ser Sam, the noontime bells rang, and near all the people of Runestone knelt and prayed the office of the Seven. It was jarring to be so steeped in the new gods again after a year with the Northern host, after two years at the Dreadfort, jarring and yet familiar. He fell into it easily, almost as if he had never left. The rule of the Seven was so structured, their inescapable ubiquity so unlike the constant presence of the old gods of the forest and the First Men. In the godswood it was so easy to lose time staring into the weirwood’s face, beneath the quiet dark and rustling leaves of the thick canopy. When little light came in, you did not notice what little light was fleeing. You brought a candle or a torch, and even if the flame went out you couldn’t be sure how much time had passed.

It was not that way under the Rule of the Seven. The bells would always tell you the hour.

In the seven hours after noontime, Domeric took his midday meal, had a nap, visited Rhaegar in the stables, went to the library, and played cyvasse with Mychel. After beating Mychel twice he had little interest in doing anything before suppertime. Anything, except for seeing Sansa. After a fortnight with only her for company, every hour of the day, spending so long without her was a sore privation. But he had no business going to where she was – the ladies’ sewing circle with Ysilla and Lady Ryella and Cassie, as Mychel told it. It was not a place where the lord of the castle went, let alone his household knights. Men were not welcome. At supper he glimpsed her, but she was placed at the high table with the Royce family, and he, just above the salt, with the rest of the knights. Then the bells rang for the seventh hour after noontide, and then all fell to silence, for it was time to pray the Luminary, seven prayers each to the Father, Mother, Maiden, Warrior, Crone, and Smith, and then the seven prayers to the Seven-who-are-One.

When it was done Domeric brushed the rushes from his knees and made his way to the godswood. He saw when he stepped outside that night had already fallen. He passed the Runestone and traced the well-worn runes for good fortune with a bare finger, the porous stone cool against his skin. In the light of his lantern the carved swirls glowed orange, as if his touch had awakened some ancient magic. He stepped back, and the glow was gone, but his breath puffed out white before his face. He drew the collar of his cloak tighter around his neck, and with spongy strides passed further into the dark.

It had been near on three years since he’d last been to Runestone’s godswood. Andal styles might have influenced generations of Royces as they built the castle higher and higher, but at its core Runestone was a First Men keep, and the weirwood was its heart. He couldn’t remember all the trees exactly, the lay of the hills on which the small forest grew, but that didn’t matter. Domeric kept his eyes on the ground, on the small circle of light before his lantern, and let the weirwood pull him towards itself.

The roots were what he saw first. The white roots, gnarled and knotty and twisted, and the red leaves were like guilty hands.

_I am guilty_, he told himself as he knelt before the giant trunk and pulled out his knife. _Duskendale, and dead men beneath the rocks. _The cut only began to hurt when the blood was already pooling, already dripping onto the craggy trunk, into the god’s gaping maw. He looked into the god’s judging face. _You are guilty of nothing, _it said, and with each pulse of his blood he felt more and more relieved. He placed his hand on the trunk, closed his eyes, and took solace in the silence.

This was where he belonged. These were his gods – the gods of the weirwood trees, of whom the Children had sang to the First Men and all his forebears. For thousands of years, Boltons had slit the throats of their enemies under those white branches, blood nurturing the roots. Once the skin was good and gone, it was time to trim the fat, to pull apart the sinews of the stomach to bring forth the bowels. The flayed and empty corpse would swing from the tree by hempen rope, the guts strung up like garlands, and those red eyes would look on and smile. Such were the ways of men named Domeric, of men named Royce and Roose and Rogar and Robar. Of men named Bolton.

When he died, he’d be given to the crypt, and the weirwood’s roots would seize his bones. His memory would go to the tree. His sorrows and his hopes, his struggles and his pain. His love. All of it. When the last drop of his life’s blood had run out, the last breath had left his lungs, he’d close his eyes for the last time and return to the endless forest, and his soul would ride on a night horse, hunting, thrilled, chasing the wind, while around him the singers sang. Then when he slew the hart, when the buck pierced his chest, he’d wake up and be born again, and live another life.

The slice of skin was his litany, the plunking drip, his chant. The crystals and the rainbow lights were not for him, nor incense smoke nor bells. He saw by blood, by the by sun and shadow and by leaves on the ground, and he breathed in iron and moss and the scent of soil brimming with life, with only the wind in his ears. And the leaves.

If it had been familiar to force himself to kneel and rise and sing according to the Rule of the Seven, slipping into wordless contemplation before the heart tree was second nature. He did not need to think. Staring into the weirwood’s red eyes, his mind would empty until it was totally quiet. Totally peaceful. It would stay that way until he rose, or until the gods deigned to speak to him, in his heart, if not to his ears. The gods would bid him to pray, or ask him what he wanted. Elsewise there was nothing but dark, and white, and red.

He heard a voice in his ear, a whisper, but it might have been just the leaves. But that wasn’t right, because leaves weren’t angry, leaves weren’t _female, _but he didn’t catch what it said. It sounded like the Old Tongue, but it was too fast for him to hear, and besides, the blood rushing in his ears was drowning it out…

He gripped his sword hilt and stood. “Who’s there?” he said.

“Domeric?” It was a female voice. “It is only Sansa. Is that you, Domeric?”

He let out a long sigh. “Aye. It is. It is Domeric.”

She wore a hooded cloak, and in the glow of her lantern her lips were red, and her skin was gold, and her hair was flame, but her eyes were shaded. She stepped forward, and the lights from their lanterns mingled when she placed hers next to his. She pulled back her hood. It was Sansa indeed. His arms went out, palms open, and she came to meet him, and then his arms folded around her.

“Hello, Princess. Sansa.” It was the first time he’d spoken her name that day. Her hair smelled like lavender oil and lye soap and the faintest hint of lemon. _So lovely. _Any rest that his heart had found after he realized it was her had died away, for it was hammering again.

“I missed you,” she said. She pressed her cheek to his and tightened her arms around his neck, and then she touched her lips to his mouth, so soft, and then she stepped back and began to stroke his beard. “I could not sleep this night. I went to the godswood,” she said, “in the Red Keep. When I could not sleep.” Then she was whispering. “And Ysilla and Cassie said you might be here.” Her breaths on his face were warm and sweet. “I missed you, Domeric.” She kissed him again, the kind he liked, deep and wet.

“And I you,” he said, afterward. Then he remembered himself. “We should not say our names, my lady. There are servants in Runestone who visit the godswood. Smallfolk.” Not that that mattered when they’d seen his things. “You could not sleep? What hour is it?”

“The hour of the bat.”

_The hour of the bat?_ “You should not be alone. Where are your guards?” He looked around. “I’m sorry – I should not have – my lady, it was not proper. You came here to pray.”

She bit her lip. “Please do not be sorry, ser,” she said. _Don’t frown at me, please. _“My guards are outside. With Ysilla.” She drew back from him, and clasped his hand, and touched the heart tree’s face. “Would you pray with me?”

The days were early at Runestone. The rite of the Seven began at dawn. “Aye, my lady. I will pray with you, if you like.”

He released her hand and they knelt together. Only a short time later she stood. “Would you walk out with me?”

_They all think I’ve ruined her. Her honor is already gone. It wouldn’t matter to them, but it matters to me._

He shook his head. “’Twould not proper, my lady.”

She inhaled sharply and bit her lip again. “Then…?” Even in the dark he could see the pink stain spreading on her cheekbones.

“Aye.” His hips nearly bucked forward when his tongue swiped against hers but for the deliberate lock of his legs, tense and straight. It should have been easy but the exertion left his breaths heavy and quick. “Good night, my lady.”

She was pouting and it was all he could do not to touch her face. She looked at the ground and made to leave. “Good night, ser.”

_The gods said I was guilty of nothing, _he thought as pressed his head onto Waymar’s pillow that night, all bundled up in Waymar’s furs. _I am guilty of nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think we hear enough about Jon Arryn in fics. We see him, and sometimes he shows up as a POV in AUs, but I don't think we get much of other people's memories, unless it's Lysa. I don't think we get much of Strong Sam Stone anywhere either.
> 
> The workout depicted in this chapter was shamelessly plagiarized from the 14th century French knight Jean le Maingre's, called Boucicaut's, personal exercise routine. Forgive me the exercise porn but Boucicaut was basically the tourney circuit champion and a military rockstar of his day. He was named a marshal of France and founded an order of chivalry inspired by the ideals of courtly love, isn't that cool? All of the knights of the Vale are held to that standard of physical fitness. 
> 
> Have you ever witnessed or seen an image/video of a high school football team kneeling or bowing their heads to say the Lord's Prayer before a game? That is what I imagine the Knights of the Vale to have been like. Westerosi knighthood, like knighthood in our world, was extremely bound up with religion, and GRRM emphasizes this a lot. We get portrayals of people who don't believe in knighthood and who have lost their faith in the gods, but I wanted to take a look at what the opposite of that would have been in Westeros. It ended up being basically expy Medieval Catholicism, with rosaries and chaplets and the Divine Office and the Liturgy of the Hours. 
> 
> I did write a Warrior's prayer but ended up cutting it out of the main narrative because it didn't end up contributing much to the story. However, I am adding it to the author's note, because I think it does underscore the theological, moral, and behavioral commitments a Westerosi knight would have had.
> 
> "O Warrior, who brought peace to a kingdom besieged by dark and death and chaos, ignite in my heart the fire of courage. Grant strength to my arm, bite to my blade, and speed to my arrows, that I might always defend the innocent from the dead who walk in sin, and cut the darkness with your light. Gird me in fortitude, that I may resist all temptations, and never stray from the Path of Light, the Way of Truth. O Warrior, O Seven-who-are-One, mold me in your likeness, that I may be worthy of your heavens’ light."
> 
> I am not quite sure whether in coming up with Old Gods religion GRRM was inspired by the druids. Maybe that's fanon. Anyway I tried to integrate some (maybe just Preston Jacobs) theories about the weirwoodnet assimilating your memories when you die into a notion of reincarnation in druidic philosophy to shape the conception of the afterlife, according to worshippers of the Old Gods. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story with your readership, comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. See you all ideally next week.


	29. Sansa X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets to know Lord Royce's household and becomes acclimated to life at Runestone.

The weeks spent at Runestone passed in a blur. After the first day, Sansa fell into an easy routine that married the friendly bustle of Winterfell to all the bright pomp in which she’d spent the first few moons in King’s Landing, before everything went wrong. Every morning they went to the sept to pray, and it was full of singing and candles and people, just like in Mother’s stories. The sept in Winterfell was nearly always empty, for only Mother and Septa Mordane and Septon Chayle went there with any regularity. The royal sept at the Red Keep saw more visitors, but as far as Sansa knew most of the court only went to the sept on major feast days, or when they had something to pray for, like before the Battle of the Blackwater.

The first morning at Runestone, she’d been confused. Septon Lucos started praying in a language that sounded like the Common Tongue but wasn’t. She could catch a word or two here and there, but mostly she stood when Lady Cassandra stood and sat when Lady Cassandra sat and knelt when Lady Cassandra knelt. The hymns she’d known, or the melodies at least, but when she opened her mouth to sing, she found the words weren’t right either, so she kept quiet, or just hummed along.

When they left the sept, Sansa asked Lady Cassandra why the prayers were so different from what Mother and Septa Mordane had taught her. At the Red Keep and in White Harbor and the tiny sept at Winterfell they spoke the Common Tongue, and there didn’t seem to be so much of a pattern. Lady Cassandra’s eyes had lit up and she began to speak very quickly.

“The Vale keeps the rite of the Seven pure, as it was said in Andalos,” she explained. “So here the rite is said in Old Andalosian. Elsewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, as the Andals spread the Faith to the west and the south, they changed it. For the people. But it’s not _right _to say the rite of the Seven in the Common Tongue, instead of Old Andalosian. Or read the Seven-Pointed Star. The Common Tongue, the translations, they’re not quite right either. Not for the Seven. The language isn’t… precise enough. The verbs, the relationships are wrong.” The excitement in Lady Cassandra’s voice reminded Sansa of Domeric whenever he talked about horses, or Joffrey whenever he got a particularly cruel idea.

“The Reachmen’s translation of the Seven-Pointed Star is the most poetic, and their rite has the most beautiful music, but it adds too much. It’s distracting. The rite of the Westerlands is that way too. That’s the problem you get with translations. The rite should ways be said in Old Andalosian. The original Hugor of the Hill. Translating it into the Common Tongue, there are too many problems. The Riverlands, they made it easy to understand, for the smallfolk, but again, the translation isn’t right. The meaning is lost. The symbols are lost. And the Stormlands, they have a technical translation, but it’s ugly. Worship should be beautiful, not ugly. Because our gods deserve beauty.”

Sansa didn’t know how to answer, so she just nodded along. “I shall have to learn Old Andalosian, then. I shall ask Maester Helliweg.”

Then Lady Cassandra broke into a large smile. “Yes, you shall! I could help you, if you like…” but her voice trailed off, because they had both fallen behind.

Lady Ysilla and Lady Ryella led their progress to the main keep at a brisk pace. “They’re walking fast because Ryella can’t ride right now, but she wants to keep her figure,” Lady Cassandra said. “She’s six moons along. Her husband Ser Arwood sent her and the children here before he left for Harrenhal.” Walking so fast, it was hard for Sansa to get a good look at the lay of the castle. _Bronze statues and runes everywhere, just like Domeric said. _When they reached the keep they made a stop at the nursery, where Lady Ryella introduced Sansa to her three young children, Ryella Frey, who had four name days, and the twins Androw and Alyn Frey, who had two, and Ser Andar and Lady Bellamyn’s younger children, Andrick and Rhea Royce.

“This is your cousin Lady Danelle, sweetlings,” Lady Ryella said. “Say hello.” While Lady Ryella explained where Danelle had come from, the six of them mobbed Sansa’s knees and brought out her smiles and giggles.

“That’s enough now,” Lady Ysilla said. “Lady Danelle is serving with me. She’ll be around for you to see later. Come on, Aunt Ysilla has work to do.”

When they’d bid the children goodbye, they made their way to Lady Ysilla’s apartments, and the solar that she used as her sewing room. On the wall was a large portrait of a woman who reminded Sansa of an older, plumper version of Arya.

“That’s my mother, Lady Lorra,” Lady Ysilla said. “She died when I was six.”

“She’s beautiful.” Sansa took in a breath. “She looks something like my sister Arya.” _Would Arya have grown up to be beautiful too?_

“Does she now?” Lady Ysilla said. “My mother was named for the other Lady Lorra, the one who married Lord Beron Stark. She was born a junior Royce. She’s Ryella’s father’s sister. But their mother Alys was a Corbray, and _her _grandmother was Jocelyn Stark, Benedict Royce’s wife.”

“Jocelyn Stark was my grandfather’s Rickard’s aunt,” Sansa said.

“Yes,” Lady Ysilla replied with a grin. “So that makes us kin. Twice over. There is Royce in you, and there is Stark in us.”

Sansa continued to stare at the portrait. Lady Lorra had the long face and dark hair that Father and Jon and Arya all shared, and her smile had something of Arya in it too, something mischievous.

“She looks more a Stark than I do.”

“Yes, well, I for one think you came out better. You have that pretty Tully hair and those Whent good looks.” Ysilla motioned with her hand. “Come now, we have much to do. We only have a few weeks before the lords start to arrive for the feast.”

“The feast?”

“For the Victory of the Light. The feast of the Seven for the turn of the year. The Belmores and the Hunters are coming here for that, and they’ll be staying for at least a fortnight after. And the Redforts and the Waynwoods and the Templetons too. They don’t want to stay in Gulltown for the wedding.”

“My Aunt Lysa’s wedding?”

“Yes, that one.” Lady Ysilla sighed. “There’s so much to do. Lady Lysa foisted this on us so quickly. Almost too late to properly prepare… Ah, well. You’ve a lady’s education. Another pair of hands, another head for figures.” Sansa felt the blood drain from her face. Lady Ysilla raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have a lady’s education?”

“I… The figures…”

“Figures. Bah. I hate them too but you can’t escape them. No matter. You can help us sew Baelish banners. Anything helps.” Lady Ysilla opened an extensive wardrobe in the corner of the room. Sansa’s eyes nearly popped when she saw all of the skeins of fabric and spools of thread. _That’s every color of the rainbow, and everything in between, and more materials than I know how to name. _Beyond the wools and the laces and velvets and silks and samites, there was a funny skein of something that looked like fur, and there were baskets full of feathers.

“You like my workshop.”

“It is very impressive.” 

“Well, we can’t play around just yet. Twenty more Baelish banners we have to sew. The mockingbird, not the Titan’s head. You’ll work with Cassandra on those. Ryella and I will work with the steward on the stores. Father says you’re to see Maester Helliweg later, and then after noon you’ll come back here and we’ll do more sewing. If we finish all the banners, then we’re free to work on our own projects again.”

When the midmorn bell rang a guard arrived to escort Sansa to Maester Helliweg’s turret. There she met Yohnnie Royce, Ser Andar’s eldest son, who was Arya’s age, as well as Bronze Yohn’s wards, Jon Templeton and Willard Waxley. The boys bristled at the fact that a girl was being included in their lessons but were quickly rebuked when Maester Helliweg explained that Danelle Rivers had a claim on Harrenhal. “Just for that I’m going to assign you all an essay on Jeyne Arryn and her role in the Dance of the Dragons. Pick a thesis and stick to it. I want it in seven days. To the library, all of you.”

When the boys were gone Maester Helliweg took out a scroll of parchment and gave her a quill and an inkwell. “I have prepared an assessment for you. Please answer these questions as best you can. I will return from the library in an hour.” Sansa looked down at the parchment and smiled. _I know all of these answers. Maester Luwin taught me well. _Sansa began to write.

***

“You have an excellent memory for facts and detail, but your ability to distinguish your sources’ biases leaves much to be desired.” Apparently Maester Helliweg thought that Maester Luwin had not in fact taught her very well.

“It is typical of many young ladies’ educations,” he told her. “If they are not their father’s heirs.” The old maester’s first effort to remedy her deficiencies was to have her read each of Grand Maester Orwyle’s, Grand Maester Munkun’s, Septon Eustace’s, and the dwarf fool Mushroom’s accounts of the Dance of the Dragons, explain how they were different and explain each author’s motivations for making them different.

“How do I know what people’s motivations are without them telling me, maester?”

He only handed her maps and family trees and expected her to discern factions based on marriage alliances, trade routes, and resource reserves. But Helliweg’s efforts did not stop there. When he heard she had never heard petitions with her father he arranged for her to sit with Lord Royce for an hour twice weekly to learn about dispensing justice and the rigors of the law. When it came out that she was near as poor with figures as Yohnnie was, he brought in the boy’s Braavosi tutor, one Luco Pagiolis, to help her learn different mathematical formulas and the principles of bookkeeping. To help her apply her learning, Helliweg sent her to Ysilla and the Runestone steward to record, assist with, and analyze their preparations for the upcoming feast.

More than once he brought out large maps of the Seven Kingdoms and little painted blocks carved into sigils. “These represent infantry, cavalry, naval units, and dragons. You start on Dragonstone. What do you do with them?” At first, she was at a loss to outmaneuver Yohnnie and Jon and Willard but soon Helliweg started having Ser Andar, Ser Mychel, and even sometimes Domeric play with her instead.

Lessons with Maester Helliweg were more exhausting than lessons with Maester Luwin had ever been.

Outside of her lessons, Runestone was everything she had dreamed the South would be when she was a little girl. The air was filled with bells and singing from sunrise till evenfall, and every meal had foods as fine as anything Gage had served at a Winterfell feast. While nothing she encountered was as extravagant as life in the Red Keep had been, she hardly went a moment without seeing a friendly smile or a cheery wave. Soon enough all the Baelish banners were made, and every day thereafter there was time for sewing with Ysilla and Cassandra and Lady Ryella and even Lady Bellamyn when she was strong enough to walk.

“You like the pink, I see,” Ysilla said to her when they finally got to open up her workshop for fun. She’d been palming a skein of velvet, finer than anything she’d ever worked with herself.

“I do.” She knew just the gown she wanted to make. 

Soon she realized just how feigned and false the Tyrells’ friendship had been. _They never asked me about me, they only let me hear their gossip circles and took me along on their excursions. When they asked me questions they were all about Joffrey. _It was not that way with the Runestone ladies. Not a day went by without at least one of them expressing genuine care that reminded her of Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel. It wasn’t quite the same – Jeyne and Beth were younger than Sansa, and Cassandra and Ysilla were older, and Ryella and Bellamyn older still – but the ease with which they took her gladdened her heart.

Ysilla Royce reminded her a bit of Lady Olenna, if Lady Olenna had been tall, and young, and didn’t insult people. She spoke to Sansa with blunt frankness.

“I thought it silly that Father told us who you were. The more people you tell, the more likely someone is to tell. It’s not a secret anymore. It’s dangerous. But he said, Father did, that I’d figure it out on my own, and then I’d tell Cassandra anyway, and that he might as well tell us so we could make you comfortable here.”

Cassandra had been betrothed to Ser Robar since the day she was born, but when he died Ysilla had to marry Ser Mychel instead. Now that she had no betrothed to write or make clothes for, she spent her energies leading a ladies’ correspondence circle that was collecting unwanted jewels for the yet-unchosen High Septon’s crown. She was sorry for Ser Robar and Ysilla and Ser Mychel, but she had always dreamed of life as a godsworn, and she hoped her lord father would grant her wish now.

“The gods meant us to be sisters,” Cassandra said. “Ysilla along with me and Jessie and Jeyne.”

“Or our fathers did,” came Ysilla’s retort. It was clear from the gleam in her eye that all her japes were meant in affection. _They look as much sisters as Arya and I do, but they love each other more. _Where brown-haired Ysilla was of a height with Sansa, towheaded Cassandra was a head shorter. Ysilla had a long face, Cassandra’s was shaped like a heart. Ysilla’s eyes were Stark grey, but Cassandra’s eyes were all Bolton ice, and Sansa commented on it.

“Father’s mother was born a Bolton,” she said. “She was Lord Roose’s aunt, or cousin, or somesuch. It is why Dom was sent to us. Lord Roose became lord too young to be made a squire, but he wouldn’t have wanted to anyway, from what Father says, and what Dom says.”

Sansa learned right away that Ser Mychel only took his rights when he was required by the maester. “Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked. “I mean to say, isn’t it good that he doesn’t hurt you as often?” Ysilla raised her eyebrow, and Bellamyn and Ryella opened their mouths to speak, but Ysilla cut them both off.

“A good thing?” she scoffed. “So you say. I tell you, I have waited to be married for long enough, and now that I am, my husband acts like a brother in black. It’s gotten so bad, I’ve taken to tossing the runes after supper. Shake, shake, shake, yes or no, yes or no, will my lord come unto me tonight? Always no, it is, always no. I say, I have been good, I did not fall in love, I have had no requests of Father save that my husband be a knight with all his teeth who has seen fewer than thirty name days, so I can enjoy the children _and _the making – ”

“_Ysilla,_” hissed Cassandra. “Don’t – don’t say that to sweet Sansa here. She has, what, fourteen name days?”

“Fifteen,” Sansa said. Her name day had come and gone but they hadn’t been able to celebrate on the ship.

“Fifteen. She’s not of age yet, she isn’t betrothed – it’s, it’s her _mother’s _place, yes? You can’t take that away from Lady Stark. And – and – you _know_ it’s not good to toss the runes like that, Ysilla, you _know_ the gods condemn it. I thought – I thought – _you told me _that you’d stopped reading those books.” Cassandra turned to Sansa. “Look, Ysilla, see here, the poor dear is _blushing_ – ”

“Blushing like a maiden, yes, how about that? You’d think, after a fortnight _alone_ with Domeric –”

“_Ysilla. _You _know_ Dom. He’s _good. _Don’t say that! Speak not that way! Come on now – ”

Ysilla rolled her eyes with a smirk. “Yes, Septa Cassandra.” Then she directed her attention at Sansa again, her expression pinching. “Princess. I spoke out of turn. I should not have presumed…”

_She does not believe I am a maiden anymore. She thinks that we… _Sansa felt her face flame up. _We were improper. It was not stupid of her to think so. _“I understand,” she said. She thought back to what Lord Royce had said the night before. _He had Domeric change his letter. He told Domeric he needed to marry me for honor’s sake. _“It does not matter what happened. Only what people believe.” She had learned that lesson a long time ago.

Ysilla grew apologetic. “I am sorry, princess. I ought not have doubted your honor.” That conversation did not occur again after the first day.

When she was not with Ysilla or Cassandra, Sansa often spent her hours with Lady Ryella and Lady Bellamyn, who were very generous with their time, and their children’s too. It was nice to visit the nursery and play with them sometimes, if there was a spare moment. They reminded her of Rickon and Bran. Something about reading them stories and singing to them was comforting, soothing, as if she were going back in time to before everything went wrong and she could pretend that the world was bright and wonderful and always would be. _It can be, _she told herself. _If you work hard enough and do the right things. _

Lady Bellamyn’s time was limited, with her new baby, and being the official Lady Royce, but Ryella, being technically a visitor in the castle of her birth and expecting besides, had few true duties to keep her busy. Ryella was very patient, and answered any question she had, about anything. Most of them were about what the Freys were like, and the Twins, and what it was like to be married. She had better questions now that she was older, and had been lectured at by Queen Cersei, than she had been at Winterfell.

Ryella’s had met her husband Ser Arwood at a tourney at Saltpans in which Ser Robar and Ser Andar had ridden. “Arwood came up to me and begged my favor, and promised me a crown. He kept that promise, and has kept every promise since.” Lord Royce had only consented to their match because Ser Arwood’s mother had been heiress to Hawick Keep, and Lord Hawick owned half of Saltpans. The other half belonged to House Cox. “But Arwood lives at the Twins because he loves his father, and his father must be there to protect his siblings.”

The Twins were packed, as Ryella told it. Her family lived on the Crakehall floor, but when old Lord Hawick died, they would move to Saltpans. “It would be much better,” she said, “if they had their own castle. Darry maybe, now that little Lord Lyman has died. Lady Mariya, that’s Merrett’s wife, she has the strongest claim. Or Harrenhal. Lady Wynafrei, that’s Danwell’s wife, is Lady Whent now. It’s big enough for all of them, if the war ever stops.”

Beyond her life at the Twins, Ryella shared that she had lost her siblings as well, when she’d been younger than Sansa was. The Mad King had killed her brother Kyle, and a spring fever had taken her sister Kella. “When Waymar died, I wanted to be here for Ysilla, but I was at the Twins. And I didn’t find out that Robar had died too until I arrived here. She still won’t talk about it. Not truly. I think she resents him for dying. For leaving.” Ryella took a breath. “But I am glad I have been able to help you, Sansa. Kyle was great friends with your uncle Brandon, and I am glad to call you my friend too.” It was good to have friends again.

The only thing she found wanting was how little time she had to spend with Domeric. She hardly saw him during the day, except when Maester Helliweg sent for him to play Cyvasse with her, or to mock out an old battle campaign. But every evening belonged to him, in the godswood. From the first evening onward Ysilla said that she didn’t need to accompany them inside. “Cassie swears he’s good, and she’s stricter than Septa Hippolane ever was. If she trusts him, you don’t need me,” she explained.

Sansa would meet Domeric at the Runestone, in the middle of the seventh hour after noon, and then he’d walk her to the heart tree and pray with her, and they would kneel in silence for a long time. _He loves the old gods as much as Cassandra loves the new, _she thought one night, as she held his hand. _Queen Cersei called me pious once, but she never met the two of them. _

When they rose from prayer he would take his torch and walk them to the nearest bench. She would lean her head on his shoulder and he would hold her hand. One night he made to kiss him again but for the first time since the ship he pulled back.

“It has been over a fortnight and your brother has not written to me, princess.” His words contained a question.

“He has not written to me.”

Domeric sighed and released her. “I fear – he must know. We’re in the Vale. The Narrow Sea, I told him – he must want – another alliance. Or your mother - ”

She took his hand back and did not let go. “They will listen,” she said. “I know they will.” The kiss she gave him started out soft but did not end that way. “They must. No one else would want to marry me after you came for me. And I love no one but you. I will wed no one but you. I will – I will join the Silent Sisters before I do. You said – you said Robb angered the Northern lords. Everyone in the west, that the Greyjoys hurt. I will tell Robb that – that if he weds me to you, it would fix everything. Your family, they are in the west, and – and your father, he married a Frey, so if I marry you, the Freys should be pleased with that. I – I spoke with Ryella, she said that many Freys are good. There’s no need to worry…”

“I pray to the gods that you are right, princess.” Then he hugged her close, wound his hands in her hair and drew her into his lap, nuzzling her face. “My lady love.” She wiggled to set herself on a surer balance. Domeric froze, and there was a tug on her hair, and now his fingers were digging into her hips, gripping her tight, stilling her wiggles with force. “But I fear you shall be wrong.”

She was off balance again, so she shifted in his lap and pressed into him for purchase. “I miss you,” she said against his face. “I miss waking up with you, and walking next to you in the daylight, and falling asleep with you there, holding me. I – can’t imagine – if it was anyone else – ” her heart caught in her throat. “If Robb has me wed – ” her heart caught in her throat. _If Robb has me wed someone else to fix his mistakes and win his war then I don’t know how things will be the same between us. I’ll never get to see Domeric again. They will never let me. Why does Robb get to marry his love but I do not? My love is a good man from a good family who brings us many swords. Robb’s love comes from witches and spice mongers and slithered into his bed like a snake. All her men swore vows to serve the Lannisters. It isn’t fair. _She tightened her grip on in his doublet.

“We should just marry. Like Robb _just married. _Robb – he couldn’t say anything, he married the Westerling girl. He can’t condemn us when he’s guilty too. We – we could go to the heart tree, it’s just over there, and then I could move into your chambers here, and - and – I could be with you every night, and we’d never need to be apart…” She wanted to hug him close, but he only gave a long, frustrated sigh, and lifted her off himself.

“Do you think so little of me, princess? That I could do that to you? That I am a man without honor?” His tone was tight and she thought she heard a hint of anger. He’d never snapped at her before. She wanted to pull her hand away, but his long fingers were curling over her own, anxious and grasping, impossible to escape.

“That’s not what I meant – ”

“And what did you mean?”

“That I love you and only you. I want you and only you.”

“Me and only me.”

“Yes.” He stared at her for a few moments, and sighed again. His gaze grew dark and hard, his face a pale stone mask, and then he turned away, back towards the heart tree. After a while long enough to let her hope, he shook his head, let her go, and stood.

“I’m sorry, princess.” She thought she heard him say he loved her, but she was not sure.

After that he escorted her back to the Runestone and she left him in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for how much of an infodump this chapter is. Sansa is much more of a people person than Domeric is, so she tried to interact with everyone, and didn't spend as much time in her own head. 
> 
> In my outline for this chapter I had an affectionate bullet point with the text "Sansa goes to school".
> 
> I am not entirely sure whether circles of correspondence were a "thing" in the Middle Ages. They were definitely a thing during colonial America. But noble ladies did organize charities. So Cassandra Redfort has her favorite charity.
> 
> One plotline that I'm not sure will go anywhere in canon is the Stark succession in the Vale. Cat made a big deal about it in ASOS during the issue with Robb's will but it hasn't come up yet in Sansa's arc, though she has met the Waynwoods in the TWOW sample chapter. If you watch Preston Jacobs' stuff it's theorized that Anya Waynwood is related to a daughter of Jocelyn Stark, which would make sense, given that she and her family are described as horsefaced.
> 
> A real life note. After 2/14 I will be on vacation for a week attending a family wedding, so please bear with me if there is no chapter on 2/21. I do want to post sometime that week but I might be having too much fun to be very online. After I get back, my employer has been gracious enough to grant me a part time schedule for the next few months given new pro family legislation where I live. Starting in March I will have more time to write, so most likely I'll be able to keep the once-a-week updates going for the foreseeable future.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story with your readership, kudos, comments, etc. :)


	30. Sansa XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The turn of the year draws closer and the Hunters of Longbow Hall arrive at Runestone.

The next evening, Ser Mychel was waiting in the godswood with Domeric when she arrived.

“Hello, ser,” she said.

“Hello, my lady.” He was leaning on a trunk not too far from the heart tree. “I hope you do not find me an intrusion, my lady. You see, Domeric has been attending the sept every day. I told him when we were squires that for every time he sat the rite of the Seven I would come join him in the godswood. He reminded me of my promise, and I mean to make good on it. It is only fair.”

Domeric nodded without saying anything.

“Of course, ser. It is no intrusion. The godswood is for everyone, and this is your home.”

“You have my thanks.” Then Ser Mychel knelt, and Domeric knelt, and Sansa knelt too, but Domeric didn’t hold her hand. She kept getting distracted by Ser Mychel’s presence, though he seemed to be praying as sincerely as Domeric was. He didn’t cut his palm like Domeric did, though, he just knelt in silence, and thumbed his Luminary beads.

It seemed like Domeric was taking longer to speak to the god this time. It certainly felt longer than all the days previous. When he stood, Ser Mychel did too, but Sansa waited for Ser Mychel to walk away so she and Domeric could be kissing again.

But Ser Mychel didn’t walk away. Instead he walked next to Domeric, who took Sansa’s arm, and too soon they had already made it back to the Runestone, and there was no kissing.

_He said we had to stop, _Sansa thought with dismay. _It did not stop when we got to the castle but it has stopped now for true._

It had been too good to last, she supposed. Lord Royce had been very lenient. He had not bothered to send his grandchildren’s septa to trail her steps.

On their walk back to the castle, Cassandra changed the subject from their discussion on working with feathers. “I hope you do not mind,” she said, “but could I share your bed tonight? Ysilla has turned me out this evening. Her red flower blooms. I grew up with two sisters and never had to sleep alone.”

It was easy to say yes. The dark dreams rarely came when she was sleeping with Domeric or the Tyrell cousins. She had them every so often again, for all that her days were so happy, now that she slept alone at Runestone. She dreamed of Robb, cold-eyed and distant, receding into the darkness, and Mother too, turning away her face. She dreamed of Father, sitting on his stone chair in Winterfell, all steely judgment and disappointed condemnation. _They’re all ashamed of me, _she’d panic in the dark. _Father, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry. I started the war. I shouldn’t have told. Bran and Rickon and Arya, it’s my fault. Father, I love you, please forgive me._

It was the first time she’d had that thought since the first days out of the capital. She misliked the dark pall it cast on her mornings. _It was my fault, but it was also Robb’s. We both made choices. We were both wrong. _Her lessons with Maester Helliweg had been helping her see. _When something goes awry it is the fault of many. Like the Dance of the Dragons_.

She did not want to indulge in such darkness. Each pang of resentment that struck her whenever Maester Helliweg told her Robb had not written left guilt gnawing at her heart. _I must not think that way. There is hope yet. Things look poorly now for the North but we can fix it. Robb will see. He will bend the knee. He will let me marry Domeric. He will. He must_. Hadn’t she given up on despair? Hadn’t she resolved to stay hopeful?

Still, she could not help but think that there was too much at risk to leave things up to hope, up to Robb and his choices. _If Domeric and I marry here, Robb will not have the chance to choose wrong._

It was no use thinking about. She didn’t want to fret. Thankfully with Cassandra as her bedmate fretting was near on impossible. As long as you took care not to rouse her zeal, she was quite funny and always cheerful. Laughter came easy to her, and her smiles were infectious. She liked to tell silly japes. Despite their color her eyes were not icy at all.

Spending more time with Cassandra did not make up for having time alone with Domeric taken away. Ser Mychel joined them in the godswood most evenings after that, and if he was not there, it was Ser Andar, or Lord Royce. It was all praying, and there truly was no more kissing. There wasn’t even holding hands.

In the godswood she prayed for Robb to see sense. Sense he could still have, if not victory. It was all she prayed about. For Robb to see sense, that she could marry Domeric. She felt guilty not praying for Father and Bran and Rickon and Arya when they worshipped the old gods too, but they were dead, and the Stranger would see to them. She lit candles for them in the sept and hoped their souls were resting. Nonetheless, her evenings in the godswood felt near as morose and alone as it had been in King’s Landing. She knew it was for honor’s sake but still she felt as if Domeric had given up and was preparing to let go. It hurt. _Don’t give up_, she wanted to tell him, _stay hopeful,_ but there was never the time. There was always someone else there. If not for the stiff smiles he’d give her every now and then she could almost think he didn’t love her anymore.

“It’s just his way,” Cassandra said, after Sansa had spoken to her in confidence. “He goes very cold sometimes. It was like that before he left us. When he was knighted. At least until Mychel and Jon kicked the sense into him, and set his manners to rights.”

Before Sansa retired the next evening, Cassandra gave her a book, bound in black leather, with pink primrose and red hollyhock pressed into the first page. The owner was not named on the inside cover, but she could recognize Domeric’s neat hand when the words began. It was a collection of poetry, with notes about each poem written out underneath. Each poem had a date. The first was from the third moon of the two hundred ninety-fifth year after Aegon’s conquest, and the last was from barely a fortnight’s past. She began to read.

All of the poems were about a lady love who was never named. Sometimes she was referred to as the Queen of Love and Beauty, and other times she was just called My Lady. _These are for me, _she realized. _These are all about me._ It was clear from the note on one poem dated in the two hundred ninety-seventh year after Aegon’s conquest, from around the time Domeric had been knighted and returned to the North. Once she knew, she had to go back, back to the beginning, to read them all again, and this time she could not stop. She kept turning the pages, looking back, peeking forward, reading and re-reading and re-reading again, until her eyes hurt, until she was too tired to read anymore, when the candle burned too low. She fell asleep with the book on her chest, and her dreams were all of him.

* * *

“My lady, the sight of your face fills my heart with joy.” Ser Eustace Hunter was kneeling before her, kissing both her hands. “I knew your father quite well. Him, and our late king. I squired at the Eyrie for Ser Vardis while they were Jon Arryn’s wards. To lose all three of them in less than a year hurt me sore.” The brown-clad knight rose but did not let go of her hands. “You are the very spitting image of your mother on her wedding day, did you know that? Fairer still, I’d wager, if my memory does not fail me.”

“Father,” cut in Ser Alec. “You shall embarrass the princess if you keep on speaking so.”

The Hunters of Longbow Hall had arrived, along with several members of House Belmore, Lady Bellamyn’s family. Now that they were here very little could be done to prepare the castle further, and the mood had shifted from one of frenetic activity to one of collegial cheer. In the Hunter party were doddering old Lord Eon and his wife Lady Myranda, who was a junior Royce by birth, his second son Ser Eon, his grandson, Ser Alec, who was well known at Runestone, and Ser Alec's wife, Lady Jessamyn, who had been born a Redfort. She was Cassie and Ser Mychel’s sister. Now only the Templetons of Ninestars, the Waynwoods of Ironoaks, and the Redforts of the Redfort had yet to arrive.

“It is no trouble, ser,” Sansa said. But wasn’t it? _So many people know who I am now._

It was impossible to hide Domeric from Jessamyn Redfort, so nobody had bothered, Cassie had said. Lord Royce had taken the Hunter family less its lord into his solar and revealed Domeric to them, instructing them to call him by Ser Jonnel’s name. Cassandra and Ysilla and Ser Mychel had been there as well, but Sansa had been kept away.

It had been no use. Ser Eustace had eyed her warily across the great hall during supper the first night, and had whispered something to his son, who had whispered something to his wife, who had nodded while Lady Myranda stared.

“Danelle Rivers? Cousins, you jape if you think such a ruse would be enough to fool me. I know just as well as you that baby Danelle passed in the cradle,” Lady Myranda had said the next day, in the ladies’ sewing circle. Ryella had winced at Lady Myranda’s words, and the younger woman had made a quick apology before turning to Sansa. “I will bet seventy-seven silvers that this fair maiden is Sansa Stark. Why, she looks like Lady Lysa four stone ago. The Crown said she was dead, but to kill her would have been folly. We’ve all been talking about it. What happened to her? I thought that mayhaps the Reachmen took her, but Eustace said it was the Moon Brothers. But here she is, plain as day. The truth.”

Cassandra and Ysilla exchanged a look. “Randa,” Ysilla said. “It is supposed to be a secret – ”

But Lady Myranda interrupted her while Sansa bristled, knotting her hands together in silence. “Now, how many people were you planning to tell? I tell you, Eustace will want to know. He has been ranting and raving about getting into the war for nigh on a year.”

Somebody must have told Lord Royce that the Hunters had discovered her because after supper that evening, after she and Domeric finished praying, Lord Royce informed them that they would be meeting with the Hunters in the small hall attached to his solar. Lady Myranda had been correct about her goodson Ser Eustace. When Lord Royce bade Domeric retell the tale of how he had taken her out of the Red Keep, Ser Eustace had hooted and crowed and clapped him on the back.

“Marvelous, I say! Marvelous…”

When Domeric and Ser Alec and Ser Eustace were done talking to her, they drifted over to Lord Royce’s table where wine was being poured. The four of them, Ser Andar, and Ser Mychel had struck up a lively conversation about ‘what to do with Lord Baelish’ but it was hard to pick out what they were saying. They were all talking over each other, and both Lord Royce and Ser Eustace were very loud.

“Eustace. _Eustace! _We are getting ahead of ourselves. Benadar’s not in this room. He doesn’t know about the girl. And we _must_ wait until Horton and Anya arrive. And Symond – ”

Lord Royce had graciously set out a separate circle of chairs for the ladies, along with sweetmeats and cheese and wine. While Ryella and Lady Bellamyn had taken their leave to see to the children, the Redfort sisters were chatting merrily and the Royce cousins’ exchange was just slow enough to follow.

“Randa, I tried. _I tried!_ All those things you wrote about. It’s no use, he still loves Mya, he doesn’t care for me at _all_. I told him, I told him, look, I don’t care if you keep her on, I have rights too, I have _wants_ too. Honestly. I hold nothing against her. I don’t want his heart, she can have it as long as she takes her moon tea. I want his children, I want his - ”

“Silla dear, don’t you fret. You’re a pretty girl. Men will take leave of their minds when they think they can bed a pretty girl. They’ll take leave of their hearts too, when the blood goes hot. Just loosen him up a bit. Wine, I tell you. Do it after the feast. Keep your neckline low and your breasts pushed up. I’ll help you pick out a gown. You’ll see – ”

“Better _leathers_ than any gown I own – ”

Sansa grew bored of hearing Ysilla complain about her marriage troubles. _No one is talking to me. Lady Myranda said Ser Eustace would want to talk to me, and he did, but now all the Valemen are talking to each other. And the Vale ladies too. _She supposed it was only natural. The Redfort sisters had not seen each other since Jessamyn’s wedding, and it had been the same for the Royce cousins. She had never longed for Arya more, or Beth Cassel, or Jeyne Poole. _They are kind and include me when they can but I am not one of them._

She eyed Domeric across the room. He was sitting at the far side of the table. The candlelight set shadows to dance against his face, and his mouth was set in a neutral line. From the glazed-over look in his eyes she could tell he was also bored. _He is used to this_, she thought. _He told me about this. A Northerner can mingle with the Valemen and be their friend but can never truly belong. They are too different. _She wondered if Father had felt this way once, too.

Domeric was spinning his wine goblet between his hands. She loved to watch his hands. His fingers. If she watched long enough, she could almost feel the ghost of his hands along her scalp, on her collarbone, on her waist, on her cheek. A spark flew into her belly and she shivered, though Lord Royce’s solar was very warm. She glanced upward, away from Domeric’s hands. The corners of his mouth were turned upward, just the slightest, and when she saw his eyes she found him staring. Heat bloomed beneath her cheeks, but she couldn’t look away.

_Do you wish we could be kissing now too? _It was the right time for it. Just a week ago, at this hour they would have been in the godswood together. _I miss you, my love. More and more every day. I wish I could say it as beautifully as you can. _His eyes grew soft, and she wondered if he could read her mind. _I love you too. _He shifted forward in his chair, and something in his posture tightened, as if he were only a moment away from springing to his feet and striding across the room to take her into his arms. His eyes were not soft anymore.

She pressed her legs together and smoothed her skirt. She had to work to keep her feet from tapping wildly on the floor. Her bodice felt tight across her chest, and her breaths weren’t doing much to get her air. _He makes me dizzy and we’re not even kissing_… It had been too long! Ever since their time in the godswood had stopped including kisses she had begun to dream them up. When she closed her eyes to sleep, Domeric was there, and he would wrap his arms around her from behind and whisper good night into her ear, and then he’d give it a little kiss on the lobe, just like on the ship. Sometimes if her mind was set in the right way, she could almost feel his nose in her hair, his chest against her back, his knees against her shins.

It was like that in the day, too. Once when she was in the library with Maester Helliweg, doing research on an essay he’d tasked her with, and a shadowy nook between two shelves caught her eye. She’d imagined Domeric pulling her by the hand into the shadowy nook and kissing her silly, and the picture had only gone away once Maester Helliweg had piled a heavy book on the table with a loud thump. She’d lost a game of Cyvasse with Domeric because she’d been too busy imagining him tugging her over the table, knocking over the board, and trapping her on his lap to notice how he’d laid out his dragon and his heavy horse in an inescapable configuration.

Now as he sat across the small hall, she pictured him standing up from the table and making straight for her. He would pull her to her feet and sweep her into a bridal carry before walking out the door. Then he’d drag aside the tapestry of some old Bronze King that hung down the hall and press her flush against the wall, undoing the braids in her hair while she poked her fingers through the buttons of his doublet and between the gaps of his thin linen shirt to meet the warm skin beneath -

But then Ser Mychel elbowed Domeric’s arm, and he turned away, and the moment was done. Sansa looked into her lap.

“Princess Sansa, I believe you did not hear me?” It was Lady Myranda.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Myranda. I did not. If you would be so kind as to repeat the question?”

Lady Myranda giggled, her brown eyes sparkling and crinkling up at the sides. “It is no trouble, princess. And you must call me Randa. Lady Myranda sounds so _old. _But I had only asked if you could recount for us how you came to Runestone?”

“I – I could not improve upon Ser Domeric’s telling, my lady...”

“Yes, yes, he does have a way with words, doesn’t he? Truly compelling. But tell, me, princess, there is not more you have to add? About life on the road? The ship? Surely you _must _have stayed at an inn or two. Rosby and Duskendale both have castle towns. Please, princess, do tell. I have scarce been out of the Vale, and you have seen so much of the world.”

Lady Myranda was cocking her eyebrow upward in an expectant arch that she’d often seen on Ysilla’s face. “I – yes. We stayed at inns. In Rosby and in Duskendale. We stayed at inns, too when my father took us south on the Kingsroad. There were far more inns then. Near the Neck… Harrenhal… the Riverlands were quite pretty.”

“So they say. But good Ser Bolton did not take you to the Neck, or to Harrenhal. Do tell, princess! What was it like to travel with him?”

“He was very gallant.”

“Gallant. Yes.” Lady Myranda smirked. “And brave. Like a hero out of the songs.” Her eyes darted towards Lady Jessamyn and back. The Redfort sisters were still absorbed in their own discussion about which of the Most Devout would be most like to be the new High Septon. When she opened her mouth to speak again, she was whispering. “Tell me, princess, did you reward him like in the songs?”

Sansa felt warm again. “I – ” _She thinks I’m ruined too, she wants me to talk about it, but I don’t know how. _She glanced over at Domeric for the briefest moment. _Ysilla and Lady Myranda seem to enjoy it as much as men are said to. It does not have to be so bad._

“Randa,” Ysilla cut in. “No, Randa.”

“She can speak for herself, Silla, she may have told you, but I want to hear it all.” Lady Myranda took another sip of her wine. “Drink, princess, it’s all right. The men over there can’t hear us over their brutish shouting. Now, you _must _have given him at least a kiss in gratitude.”

“Yes,” she said, because she did not feel like lying.

“You’re blushing,” Lady Myranda whispered deviously, leaning forward. “His kisses must have been very good.”

“I – ” but she was saved from speaking more when a servant came to pour more wine, and the Redfort sisters’ attention fell back to the group again.

“We’ll speak later, I think, princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this might be the first chapter so far to not feature any dialogue from Domeric. We haven't really "seen" him be quiet so far even though it's one of the five or so things we know about him from canon. But the conversations he had with the Redfort siblings must have been so awkward. Mychel, having deflowered a lady and regretted having had to abandon her would have gladly obliged. Cassandra happily obliged too after recovering from the initial shock from the revelation that Domeric was not in fact as 'good' as she believed. But she is more than happy to help him remain 'good'. He is at the point where he recognizes his need for help and makes an effort to ask for it :^)
> 
> Safe to say, he is about to crack. It's not fun for Sansa though. Not cool to not explain things.
> 
> I sincerely debated cutting out this chapter but I decided against it because I like Randa Royce too much, and I wanted the Hunters to show up. Despite her earlier appearance as an antagonistic figure in one of Domeric's chapters she really is one of my faves. I just don't think Domeric would have liked her all that much. Sansa though she outht to get along with in every universe they meet :) The show robbed us of our Randa and gave us a twisted replacement. Not cool, D&D!
> 
> One of my favorite crack pairings is Roose and Randa. I have a feeling they would be such a power couple (and that Roose would really appreciate her, unlike Harry, because Roose likes thicc ladies). It would make Dom so uncomfortable though.
> 
> On another note, it is Valentine's Day. Sansa got an awesome valentine in this chapter. I hope you all have a happy Valentine's Day, whether that is with a spouse/SO or chilling with your friends/family/pets or just relishing the peace and quiet of sweet alone time (alone time is awesome and precious). It's also a great day to wear pink and red. I will be repping House Bolton at work today :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story with your readership, comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. See you all next time :)


	31. Domeric XVIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric has a spooky experience in the sept and drinks too much wine at a feast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Often it is brought home to my mind  
the dark quality that Love gives me,  
and pity moves me, so that frequently  
I say: 'Alas! is anyone so afflicted?':  
since Amor assails me suddenly,  
so that life almost abandons me:  
only a single spirit stays with me,  
and that remains because it speaks of you.  
I renew my strength, because I wish for help,  
and pale like this, all my courage drained,  
come to you, believing it will save me:  
and if I lift my eyes to gaze at you  
my heart begins to tremble so,  
that from my pulse the soul departs.
> 
> \- Dante Alighieri, 'Often it is brought home to my mind', La Vita Nuova

“And how long has it been since your last confession?”

Septa Hippolane’s thin and reedy voice was muffled through the star-spangled wooden screen. _Since the day I was born, _Domeric thought. Domeric Bolton had never stood in line for the booth opposite the Maiden’s altar outside the sept, repenting for the darkness he had drawn into his heart. But Ser Jonnel Holt had, and even though the Hunters and the Waynwoods were here and half the castle knew who he was by now, Bronze Yohn had bid him to be Ser Jonnel Holt. And Ser Jonnel would have made at least one confession before the Feast of the Victory of Light at the turn of the year, as was required by the Rule of the Seven. So Domeric had fallen in line behind all the other knights that morning, and waited his turn. Inscribed on the door to the booth were the Seven Tenets of the Seven-who-are-One:

_First Tenet. The Seven-who-are-One is the only god that is, and the Light of the Seven is the only light by which the Truth is known. Let it be known that he who professes any god that is not the Seven-who-are-One or claims to know Truth by any other light has sinned, is dead, and walks in dark._

_Second Tenet. The Seven-who-are-One came down from heaven to bring order to the world. The Father gives the law, the Smith bids us work, the Warrior asks us courage. Let it be known that he who opposes his father or his captain or his lord or his king, or languishes in sloth when there is work to be done, or cowers when there is a just war to fight, has sinned, is dead, and walks in dark._

_Third Tenet. The Seven-who-are-One came down from heaven to bring peace to men. The Maiden in her innocence shed light on our sins, the Mother in her mercy absolved us of our sins, and the Crone in her wisdom showed us the Path of Light. Let it be known that he who denies the sin of himself or of his fellow, or fails to forgive his penitent fellow in reform, or knowingly leads his fellow away from the Path of Light, has sinned, is dead, and walks in dark._

_Fourth Tenet. The Seven-who-are-One came down from heaven and showed Hugor the Way of Truth. Let it be known that he who speaks falsehoods and lies, or defiles the godsworn, the septs, the septries, or the motherhouses, or denies the power of the Seven’s rites, has sinned, is dead, and walks in dark._

_Fifth Tenet. The Seven-who-are-One gave men and women minds to know their Light and their Seven Heavens, and gave them bodies to know the world and master the beasts, and blessed the union of man and woman to bring forth children of Light into the world. Let it be known that he who darkens the light of his mind in lust, or slakes his lust on himself, or lays with his fellow outside the marriage bed, or who brings children into the world outside the Seven’s Light, has sinned, is dead, and walks in dark._

_Sixth Tenet. The Seven-who-are-One came down from heaven to Hugor’s Hill and entered Hugor’s home, and Hugor, the Man, and the Woman lived in peace. Let it be known that he who harms a guest in his own home, or who harms his host in his host’s home, has sinned, is dead, and walks in dark._

_Seventh Tenet. The Seven-who-are-One alone have power over death, and the souls of the dead return to the Seven-who-are-One in their Seven Heavens or their Seven Hells. Let it be known that he who is neither lord in the Father’s name nor soldier in the Warrior’s name who deals death to his fellow, or who deigns to raise the dead, or denies the Father’s judgment, the Seven Heavens, or the Seven Hells, has sinned, is dead, and walks in dark._

Kneeling on the stone floor he felt like a fraud. By the Light of the Seven he was guilty of breaking every tenet except the sixth. But he could not deny the gods that were his. He would not speak such words aloud. But he had to say something. There were other people waiting behind him. The septa would keep him until he said something.

“I – ” he started. “I cannot remember my last confession,” he said. _I cannot lie here. _But that was not a lie. The air in the booth was stuffy, but the septa kept a crystal lantern on the other side of the booth, and its light came out warm through the stars carved in the wood. Sweat built on his neck. _I have to say something. _“I. My fellows. I lied to them. My father, he betrayed our king. I concealed it. The betrayal. From my fellows. I took no part. But I did not reveal it. But. My father – he is my father. I could not reveal him. A thousand men died. Because of what I did. I’m sorry. For not telling them. It is my fault they died.” His clipped whisper was hoarse. The close air was so stale, so stuffy. Wine or water, he needed wine or water. “There is a girl. A lady. An innocent maiden. I – I love her. But. My thoughts – I have them. The lustful thoughts. Every day. They won’t go away. And. I spent on her. My seed.” He coughed, and it came out like a choke. Wine or water, he needed wine or water. “I have been. Improper. Too close. Her. Guardian. Has not responded to my request. To marry her. But I would.” The air was too dead to breathe in proper. The light was too warm. “I am sorry.”

Why had he said all that? That was Domeric Bolton speaking, and he was Jonnel Holt. But he did not know Jonnel Holt’s sins, and Jonnel Holt’s gods could not hear Domeric Bolton. But the words kept spilling out. Once he said them, he could breathe, could feel the moisture in his mouth. It was as if there was something in that little booth, something drawing the words from his lips like the heart tree drew his entire being unto itself. Something weighty, something powerful. Something like a ghost. Or a god.

_The god in here is none of mine. My gods have told me I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve slain neither kin nor king. I’ve been a courteous guest. I’ve eaten no flesh of man, nor have I lain with a beast. I have no sin before the gods of my fathers. _

“That is all?”

“Aye.”

“You have confessed your sins. Give thanks to the Maiden for shining light on your lost innocence, and to the Mother for absolving your guilt. Say the Maiden’s septlet in the sept while looking into the light.”

He pushed open the booth’s exit door and the light in the sept stabbed his eyes. He rushed through seven prayers to the Maiden while staring at the crystal chandelier and went to the godswood as fast as he could without running like a fool. There was enough time before the Victory procession began. With a shaking hand he cut his palm and looked into the god’s red eyes. _I should not have listened to that thing in the booth or said the things that I did. I should not have been play-acting like a child. I am Domeric Bolton, not Jonnel Holt. I must stop going to the sept and I must give Ser Sam back his charm. Half the castle knows who I am by now. Mayhaps half the Vale. Lord Yohn will understand._

When the sept bells started to ring, he rose off his knees and left his god in the dark. He wanted to see the procession around the castle walls. It was beautiful. The singing was beautiful, the vestments, the relics. He could watch it without worshipping.

He took a place along the wall immediately to the right of the western gate, amidst a throng of squires and off-duty men-at-arms. The procession would begin outside the sept. Then the walkers would proceed to the western gate, and then they’d walk around the walls and along the beach, south then east then north then west again, before returning to the sept and attending the rite, said by seven godsworn and sang by a choir of seventy-seven. The seven godsworn would play out the Victory of the Light like some mummer’s show and then the congregation would proceed to the feast.

First came the singing and the bells. He could hear the seven-tone scale, the seven parts to the harmony, before the walkers rounded the wall. Then came the crunch of coming footsteps, and then a waft of incense smoke, and then the light, from so, so many candles, and the Crone’s crystal lantern.

Septa Hippolane led the way. She carried the Crone’s crystal lantern, which had seven sides and carried seven burning oils. Her face was streaked with black and white lines of lead paint, the Crone’s deep wrinkles. Septon Lucos was next. He was the Father, carrying the Father’s judgment scales, wearing a white horsehair wig and a white horsehair beard, both down to his waist. Then came the strong-armed Smith and his hammer, the shining Warrior and his rainbow sword, the Mother with her heavy breasts and swollen belly, and the fresh-faced Maiden with a clutch of flowers in her hands. Last of all was the Stranger, with a long hood and a stern silver mask. Behind the godsworn walked the Royce family, and then the Belmores and the Hunters and the Waynwoods, and then the knights and the other ladies. The long line of people passed Domeric by, each of them holding a candle and singing of the light that slays sin and death and dark. They passed him by, and the Crone hung the lantern on the gate, and the line disappeared into the courtyard. Then the squires and the men-at-arms and the rest of the watching servants followed the light to the sept.

Domeric hurried back to his chambers and looked at the long Myrish glass. These clothes would not do, the bronze tunic that could belong to any Royce man. If he was to wear bronze, he would wear his Ryswell doublet, with the running horses and their flaming eyes. That would not do either. _Tonight I will wear red. _He pulled out one of his red doublets, the velvet, with the white stitching that resembled weirwood roots, weirwood leaves. But now his black breeches weren’t right. So he pulled out the white. Better. But it wasn’t perfect. It would have been perfect if he could shave the beard, but he couldn’t shave the beard, as Lord Yohn had told him to keep it, and he was a guest under Lord Yohn’s roof. At least it looked better now that he’d taken Andar’s advice.

He went back to the godswood. The bells would ring when it was time to enter the hall for the feast. He knelt and touched the god’s face. He’d already given his blood once today. He wouldn’t need to again.

He wished Sansa were with him. How he missed her so. It wasn’t just the feeling of her against himself he missed, but her presence, her words. Her gentle smile. _Her kind heart is such a comfort to me. _In the cool and silent dark before the tree, he was alone. The leaves rustled behind him, and it was if the god was speaking to him again. _She shouldn’t be there, _he agreed. _In the sept. She’s the North’s princess. A Stark. She should keep the North’s gods. _There shouldn’t have been a sept at Winterfell. Lord Stark shouldn’t have built it for his Tully wife, or brought the southron septon and septa. _The Tullys were a First Men house once. They kept the old gods. Then the Andals came and gave them brides and their brides raised their babes in the light of the Seven. _He looked into the god’s face and he saw red. _The King in the North has a southron bride too. He wed her in the sept. How many Starks will it take to wed in a sept before the North is full of septs and our gods and our ways are lost forever?_

Not for long, perhaps. A warm, well-lit sept full of song would be so inviting when the white winds blew. _It does not matter how beautiful the Seven are, or how much the Seven-Pointed Star sounds like the truth. The gods of the cold and the forest and the wild are in our blood. We belong to them as much as they belong to us. The weirwood is who we are. _And when winter came, it would not matter. Beauty was waste, and hope was folly. Survival trumped truth, and the weak needed culling, not mercy. _The light of the Seven is not for the North. Not for House Bolton, and not for me. _He had to remember. It was so easy to forget.

He thought of his father’s wedding to Walda, in the sept at the Twins. _The Freys have little faith. Walda must take up our gods. I must teach her if my father will not. There must be no sept at the Dreadfort. My brothers will be Boltons and will keep House Bolton’s gods._

And if the gods smiled on him and he took Sansa to wife, his sons would keep them too. _If the gods smile on me, and His Grace breaks his silence. _Down the path Sansa would have him walk lay dishonor at the best. _And death perhaps, at worst._

The bells rung. It was time to go back. On his way out of the godswood he passed the Runestone again. Again in the torchlight the runes and the swirls glowed as if enchanted, and he traced them. _We Remember, _he thought. But did the Royces remember? They taught their children how to read and write the runes of the Old Tongue, and they tended the Runestone, aye, and they defended their heart tree and those who prayed beneath it, but they did not keep the old gods. The ways of the First Men, the songs of the children – it was all just history to them. Words on a page. It was dead. They might have been proud of their First Men heritage, they might have worn the runes on their armor, but they were Andals in their hearts. The Royces had forgotten.

Even Waymar, the Waymar who’d hung onto every word of every Northern children’s story Domeric had brought with him down south, the Waymar who’d always wanted to watch atop the Wall – he kept the new gods too. All the Valemen had forgotten. The Belmores. Hunters. The Redforts. All those houses who’d united under the Royce banner at that great battle beneath the Giant’s Lance and a sky bright with seven stars. What had it all been for?

He entered the Great Keep, and in it, the Great Hall. First, he heard the sounds. The laughter, the music. Then he saw the light of the torches. He took his place, just above the salt, and then he felt the warmth. From the wine in his blood. The food. By the gods, the Royces could feast. And a feast of the Seven meant at least seven courses. First came the rack of lamb, his favorite, buttered and baked in mint leaves. When he was done he indulged himself and sucked the rich marrow from the bone like a wildling, licking the salty red juice from his fingers. Then came the breaded balls of pork and the steaming cheese stew. There was a skinned stag, salted for seven days and served with its antlers and head, and sturgeon from the sea, cooked in parsley and vinegar and covered with powdered ginger from Essos. There was chicken and capon and kid goat and goslings, a white cream covered with fennel seeds and preserved in sugar, sliced cheeses from the world over, and plums stewed in rose-water. The wines were Arbor golds and Dornish reds and even the sweet pink wines from the vineyards outside Ironoaks. He had not eaten this well since he had been a squire.

_I wasn’t supposed to be alone today, _he mused into his wine. _Lord Horton and Creighton and Jon were supposed to be here, and their wives._ It was only three days’ ride from the Redfort to Runestone, but this night and the last had been cold and rainy, and in the Vale, lowland rains meant mountain snows. _They are on the road still, or they have not yet left. _

Sansa sat far above the salt, but below the high table, nestled among Lady Anya Waynwood’s party. She was chatting merrily with stuttery Wallace and one of his sisters. _At least it’s not Harry the Arse and his insufferable smile. Or Roland or Steffon and their stupid Stark faces. They should not have been told at all. Lady Anya stares down her nose at me when she thinks I do not know, and hates that Sansa spurns her get for me. All she sees is a castle, not a girl._

He didn’t catch himself staring soon enough, for Sansa caught his eyes. She held his gaze for a moment, and then she gave a coy smile into her stewed plums, batting her long lashes. The moisture fled his throat so he drained his cup. _I must be good tonight._

Bronze Yohn rose, clapped his hands, and the tables were pushed aside for the dancing, and then the minstrels started to sing. Lord Yohn led Lady Ryella out for the first dance, and Mychel and Ysilla and Andar and Lady Bellamyn joined them. So did Lord and Lady Belmore, Old Lord Hunter and Randa, and Alec and Jeyne, and a dozen other pairs besides. When the high nobility had finished the first dance the floor opened up to the rest of the feasters.

“Ser Jonnel?” It was Sansa. She had placed her hand on his shoulder and come to stand behind him.

“Lady Danelle. Happy feast day, my lady.” He turned around to look up at her.

“Happy feast day, Ser Jonnel.” She looked down at the table and then up at him again. “Would you care to dance, ser?”

“It would be my pleasure, my lady.” He rose and clasped her hand. _So soft, so warm. _Then he led her to the floor and they began to spin. _The False and the Fair _buzzed in his ears. Bronze Yohn kept on singers of quality. With each “hey-nonny-hey” he lifted her up into the air; the soles of her slippers would give a clicky tap, and her breasts would give a little bounce, up and down, just in time with the music. She had a tight bodice again, and his hand on her waist pressed into the velvet, rich and fine. Pink it was. Pink, his color. A swarm of black bats flew away from her bosom, out from the plunge of her neckline. When she twirled away from him and he pulled her back he could see Balerion and his dragonfire and the five ruined towers of Harrenhal swirling in her skirts over the floor. And Harrenhal’s snarling weirwood tree too. _Pink and red and white and black._ _She’s wearing my colors. _

He kept her as his partner through the upbeat _Lord Harte Rode Out on A Rainy Day_, the slow and sad _On A Misty Morn, _through _Seven Sons and Seven Swords _and all its stomping and kicks. Then the singer started _The Roadside Rose, _and after the first chorus, he had to give her up to Alec Hunter, for it was a partner switching song.

“I think I shall retire early tonight,” Cassie said with concern. “I feel a chill coming on. And I oughtn’t share your lady’s bed either. Will you be all right tonight, Dom?”

“Aye, Cassie. I will. Of course. See to your health.”

Lady Bellamyn’s cousin Bryce was dancing with Sansa now, and his hands were pressed into the pink velvet.

“Domeric, did you hear me?” said Ysilla. “I asked – if you knew…”

“I beg your pardon?” he said, but her thick brows knit together in exasperation, and she couldn’t say more, because Guy Coldwater came to take her away, and Elwood Tollett had his fingers knit through Sansa’s hands.

“You’re not dancing very well tonight, Domeric,” noted Jessamyn. “Do you need me to lead this?”

Domeric bristled_. _“You know I’m a fine dancer, Jessie,” he said. _Right foot, left foot, step back, jump. Twist. Clap. Easy. _“You have taken well to Longbow.” The Hunter browns agreed with her sandy hair, and her whole bearing seemed more self-assured than when he’d known her as a maiden.

Then Jessie laughed, and the white feathers on her shoulders ruffled like a bird’s. “I have,” she said. “Alec makes me very happy. And with Randa there it’s an awful riot now. But she insists I call her _grandmother – _”

But it was time to switch partners again, and now he was jumping and twisting with Randa herself. “Gallant ser. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Lady Hunter.”

“Lady Hunter? I suppose I am. But it’s Randa to you, hmmm, Domeric?”

“If it pleases you, my lady.” Sansa was dancing with Mychel now. That wasn’t so bad.

“It pleases me,” she said. He released her and they both clapped their hands. “So gallant you are, Domeric Bolton.” Out of the corner of his eye Domeric could see Randa’s gaze dart away. The top of her head turned so their faces were parallel, and then he could no longer see her. “Too gallant by half, I think.” Then Myranda started to giggle, and she did not stop until they switched partners again, and Sansa was back with him.

Her face was glowing, it seemed. Glowing in the firelight, and glowing pink, from the wine or the dancing and maybe even from him. Her face was glowing pink, and her lips were shining red. _Not here, _he reminded himself. He opened his mouth, and then _The Roadside Rose_ ended. He recognized the opening chords to _Fifty-Four Turns _and made to lead her again, but a voice cut in.

“Ser Jonnel! You cannot keep this roadside rose all to yourself! She is not yours.” It was Roland Waynwood. “Lady Danelle, would you care to dance with me?”

Sansa looked down demurely as Roland Waynwood took her away. “Of course, Ser Roland.” Domeric watched Sansa spin and twirl and jump and land into Roland’s waiting hands. When she spun and twirled again, he could see the five-fingered shadows where the other man’s hands had been, dark against the velvet pile.

He was sure that if he’d had a cup in his hand, his fingers would have warped the metal. He closed his eyes.

_The blade is sharp, and it takes no effort to slide it out of Roland’s gut. It comes out red, bright red, shining, and Roland sinks to the floor, aye, he’s spitting up, he will be gone soon – _

Domeric blinked. _No, no, I mustn’t think that way, no. _He shook his head and turned his gaze away. Mychel was sitting at the high table, lazily spinning a knife on his third finger. Domeric went to join him, careful to avoid Bronze Yohn’s empty chair. His friend gave a short nod in greeting and they both looked over the revelers in silence.

“Randa came to speak to me,” Mychel said after a time. He stopped spinning the knife and picked up his empty cup, and started spinning that too. “She gave me a right tongue thrashing. Says I have no business causing _two_ women to suffer so.” Mychel frowned. “She is right. I ought to do better. By my duties, by my vows. By her.”

“Aye.” Ysilla landed a jump with a laughing Ser Bryce. When _Fifty-Four Turns _ended, Petyr Shett came to dance with Ysilla, but then she looked pointedly at Mychel, and then Ser Petyr came up to ask Mychel’s permission. Mychel granted it and waved him away. Across the floor Harry Hardyng asked Sansa to dance, and Domeric called for more wine. No man needed anyone’s permission to dance with Sansa. With Danelle Rivers. Mychel had his cup filled as well.

“It’s better this way,” Mychel said after he drank deeply. “Jon would have dishonored her. And Ellyn too. At least I have a mind to _try._”

“Aye.” Had Jon been forced to wed Ysilla, he would have tumbled her until his seed had taken, then ridden off to Egen keep, gotten a bastard on Lady Ellyn, and howled and cursed when they were both shipped off to the Motherhouse. Or, if he could have stopped that, he would have gone on to keep cuckolding whichever poor knight or man-at-arms on whom Lord Egen managed to foist his ruined daughter, for as long as he could. He would have claimed his bastard, of course. He might have even loved him more than his children by Ysilla. No, that wasn’t right. Not might. Jon would have loved Ellyn’s bastard more than Ysilla’s trueborn sons without a doubt. Then he would have crossed Bronze Yohn and Lord Egen both.

That had always been Jon’s attitude. _Take what you want and face what comes like a man. _He couldn’t have been more different from pious, dutiful Mychel, who rivalled Domeric in caution. It truly was better that Mychel had married Ysilla instead. At least Mychel was trying.

Domeric loved Jon dearly but many a time he thought him brazen to the point of stupidity. _Don’t listen to Mychel, Dom, I’ll take you off to Gulltown. Dom, it’s all right, Father rarely touches the oldest vintages. _Often Domeric ended up thinking that following Jon could only end up with them both mucking out the stables for a moon or spending a day in the stocks. But it all had turned out for the best in the end, hadn’t it? Jon had taken what he wanted and it had worked out passing well for everyone. Everyone except for a ruined bastard girl.

The dancers spun to _The Maids that Bloom in Spring, _and Sansa was smiling brightly at the Arse. Across the hall, Ysilla and Randa were whispering to each other under a torch. When the song changed, Randa went on to dance with Harry and Ysilla came up to the high table.

Her gown was red, and it was stitched with white runes. She wore a bronze torque about her neck and bronze bangles on her wrists. The whole getup reminded Domeric of the treasures of the old Red Kings, locked away beneath the Dreadfort.

_She’s dressed like a Red Queen_, he thought. _Sansa should have that gown instead._

“My lord,” Ysilla said with a fake smile.

“My lady,” Mychel replied. “You wish to dance with me?”

Ysilla shook her head and stared at the space between Mychel’s head and Domeric’s. “Maester Helliweg said – this week, we ought – ” then she looked Mychel square in the face and took a breath.

_I want no part in this. _Domeric returned to his seat from the high table. Sansa did not have a partner anymore and started towards him. _Roland Waynwood said she wasn’t mine, but by all the laws of the First Men, she is. And she wants to be. She wears my colors, and returns to me._

“Ser Jonnel,” she said, “would you care to dance with me?”

Domeric looked up. Over her shoulder he could see Mychel and Ysilla arm-in-arm, striding out of the hall.

“My Princess,” he said. He rose and gave her a smile, and then he held out his arm. “Let’s take a walk to the godswood instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of the procession of the Victory of the Light came from Catholic feast day processions (through town, around the church/parish, through the countryside, etc) and the Easter Vigil liturgy where the Easter candle is lit by the sacred fire and the Easter candle lights the whole congregation's candle in turn. The only light is candlelight until midnight, when the rest of the lights go on. Also, Hannukah and Christmas (especially the 'mummer's show'/Nativity play). While we know that feasts of the Seven like Maiden's Day existed, I thought that important symbols like Light must have had their own feast days too.
> 
> Like the Boucicaut workout, this meal was blatantly plagiarized from a description of a 14th century French feast. Except for the rose from Ironoaks, and the rack of lamb. I made that up based on the Westeroscraft depiction of Ironoaks with vineyards outside. Rose is awesome and I love it and Domeric would love it too because it's sweet and pink. Rack of lamb is some good stuff! The Vale has a ton of it because of the large sheep population. I bet the North around the Sheepshead Hills (the Hornwood and Bolton lands) has a ton of rack of lamb too.
> 
> Well, by the end of the chapter Domeric is completely and utterly shithoused. I counted at least six drinks but we all know medieval wine was watered down, so it might have been more. Please don't do this IRL! Always drink with a buddy and make sure your buddy doesn't go off with his lady if you need to stay with someone! Or have at least two buddies if your main buddy is like to go off with his lady!
> 
> I'm not sure how big Runestone is. That would make 3 trips to the godswood in a day. That's kind of... a lot of walking. I think the knights got the morning off from the yard that day, since it was a feast day, and feast days meant time to party. But still. Domeric has done a ton of walking today.
> 
> Today I am releasing two chapters. Aloha everyone!


	32. Sansa XII / Domeric XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains sexual content. If you do not want to see such content for any reason, or if it will make you want to cut out your eye, please dip out after the first asterisk because there is no point in continuing the chapter further.
> 
> In future chapters I will endeavor to make dip-out points apparent via CTRL+F and in the notes.

Sansa pressed her fingers into the crook of Domeric’s arm. The autumn night air was bracing, and her hands were white with cold. She was glad that she had brought her cloak to the feast. Her breaths left her mouth in white puffs but glowed orange when they met the light of the torch Domeric had taken from a sconce on the wall.

The walk to the godswood was silent but for the crunch of their footsteps and the rhythm of their breaths. It had been different as they had exited the keep. It seemed that every tapestry and darkened alcove they’d passed had hidden a pair of lovers kissing, their soft moans and breathy sighs floating down the shaded corridors.

Domeric led them past the Runestone with long and steady strides. They were going so fast that his cloak was flapping behind him. Through the velvet of his close-fitting doublet Sansa could feel his hard muscles brimming with tension. _He is hurrying us, _she thought. _He must want to kiss me very much. _

She was glad that she’d had the chance to speak with Randa while finishing her dress.

“There,” her new friend had said. “When you look like _that_ not even the gods could keep him away. Fret not, my dear, you shall have your kisses again.” Then Randa had leaned in close, and said, “and with a little wine, perhaps something more.”

They never did get very far into their discussion of what was more, because Cassie’s ears had piqued at their words and even her sister Jessie had chuckled about the ruckus she had made over the scandal of it all.

“Oh, _fie_ upon you, Myranda Royce!” Cassie had shrilled, dropping her sampler to the floor, her features flaring redder than her gown. “A millstone hangs around your neck.”

Randa had teared up in mirth, and Ysilla had covered her smile, but Jessie had gently laid a hand on Cassie’s shoulder.

“Sister, peace. Wrath does not become your face.”

The memory made Sansa want to giggle, but the godswood was not a place for giggling. But she was glad for the long walk; she hardly had the chance to just walk with him and enjoy his presence anymore. Their evening meetings in the godswood were always chaperoned, now, and he often tainted them with stiff smiles and stilted words. There had been no kisses for near on a fortnight, and his face always looked apologetic. Now he was hustling them towards the heart tree with a breezy confidence she hadn’t seen since they’d left Duskendale. Her heart started to beat faster. _Maybe we could take our time today and just enjoy being together. And maybe I can try some of those things Randa mentioned too._

When they reached the heart tree, Domeric stopped.

“Look, Sansa,” he said, motioning with the torch. “The god is smiling.” In the fire’s orange glow the shadows did seem to stretch the corners of the tree’s red mouth upward. Domeric was smiling too, but then his mouth became serious, and his pale eyes as well. Then he looked at the weirwood, and then back at her face.

“Do you care?” He stepped back from her, towards the tree, and her hand fell away from his arm. “What your brother has to say?” The torch cast his face in flickering shadows. “He will be taking the black besides.”

“Ser?”

He motioned to the heart tree with to torch again. “He could say nothing,” he said. “Your brother. Jeyne Westerling was wed without her father’s consent.” Sansa’s heart leapt. _Does he mean…? _He took a breath in and the dark danced on his face. “No harm will come to him. Your brother. My father has not written me either. I swear, he does not know that we are here.” His eyes flicked to the god’s face. He was telling the truth. Domeric would not lie before the heart tree. “Your brother will take the black before we tell my father.” When he breathed out the white puff obscured his expression.

“Tell your father?” But he did not answer. And then it didn’t even matter. Lord Royce trusted Domeric’s father, and she trusted Lord Royce.

“I do not want,” he started, “to have warned your brother of what is coming, only to be denied my just reward.” Domeric was bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, and his eyes were shining. “Tell me that you not care. About your brother. That it is what you want. To be my wife.”

“I want to be your wife.” Hadn’t she told him enough times?

“And your brother? His rights over your marriage?” The white puffs in front of Domeric’s face were coming out small and dying fast, like baby ghosts. She could smell the wine on his breath.

“I wish he did not have them.”

“Perfect.” Domeric bent down and staked the torch into the ground, and then went to stand just before the heart tree. “Who comes?” he said, a great white grin on his face. “Who comes before the god?”

Sansa felt her eyes widen and her heartbeat quicken again. _He changed his mind, he changed his mind! The gods heard my prayers._

Domeric coughed, upset concern knitting his brows together. His grin died and he opened his mouth. Sansa spoke before he could say anything. She knew the words. She took care not to trip over them, to enunciate, clear and confident. “Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

The sound of her voice brought his smile back to life. _It is so rare to see him smile like that._ “I do,” he said, and his voice rang out deep against the trees as if he were singing. “Domeric of House Bolton. Heir to the Dreadfort. I claim her.”

There was no one to give her away. “I take this man.” Domeric took her hand and she knelt with him. Her hand was cold, but his was shaking, and so, so warm, like a jumping coal. The ground was hard under her knees, for a chill had crept into the earth. Winter would be coming soon.

_I will have new words soon_, she thought. For the second time she had to remind herself that the godswood was no place for giggling. Beside her Domeric was looking up at the god’s smiling face. His lips were moving wordlessly, and his eyes were bright. He was praying.

When she was a child, it had always been difficult for Sansa to pray to the old gods. Mother’s gods had hymns and prayers and proverbs and psalms; you could close your eyes and close your mind and say the words by rote. It was not that way with the old gods of the North. _Pray from the heart_, her father had told her when she confessed that she never knew what to say. _The gods can see your heart._ But that had been before King’s Landing. There in the Red Keep’s godswood she had first let the old gods and their thousand eyes see her heart for true. _I asked them for a friend, for a true knight to champion me. I thought it was Ser Dontos but it was Domeric instead._

_You answered my prayers before, so hear me now again. Help me be a good wife, obedient and loyal and true. I swear I will never stray. Give us many strong sons and beautiful daughters. Send us wise counsel to rule the Dreadfort as a just lord and proper lady. Take care of Father and Bran and Rickon and Arya, and Lady Bethany and Domeric’s brothers too. _

There was one thing that she had forgotten. _Lead my brother to victory and never let Stark and Bolton war again. Help Robb and Mother see._

Domeric gave her hand a squeeze to bid her rise.

“I would swear a vow to you,” he said as he unclasped the screaming head pin that bound his sable cloak. She did the same and hung her cloak on her arm. _Dark grey, not Stark grey._ “It is not part of a traditional Northern wedding. But there are words that I would have you hear, and I would take the gods as my witnesses.”

His breath was hot on her neck as he bound the cloak around her shoulders. “You are under my protection now. Sansa Bolton. My lady wife.” When he was done, he took a knee, and his head was just level with the god’s mouth. He drew his sword and lay it at her feet.

“To you I pledge all my love. To you I swear all my faith. My whole heart and all I have I yield up to you, my lady, for we are one heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever.” He paused and licked his lips. “I will defend you with my sword and shield you with my body. For you I will lay down my life if needs be. May the gods strike me down if I ever fail you or break my oath. As the gods do witness, this I swear to you.”

He rose then. Sansa opened her mouth. _I should swear something too. _But her voice failed her, and she looked to the god for help. The weirwood sent her Domeric again.

“Say that I am yours and you are mine.”

“I am yours and you are mine.”

“Say that nothing shall ever part us.”

“Nothing shall ever part us.” She looked up into his face. “I love you,” she said.

“And I love you.” His pale features seemed to give off their own light, separate from the torch’s orange glow. _He is so beautiful_, she thought. _I have never seen him quite so happy._

He drew his knife and opened a fresh cut on his palm. “Give me your hand.” She obeyed. “This may hurt.” Then red was blooming on the white, and then he pressed their hands together. After a moment he pulled his hand away, and he motioned to her with his long fingers.

“Give the blood to the tree.” His hand looked like a weirwood leaf, five red fingers and streaked with lines. He positioned it just over the opening to the god’s smiling mouth, and let the red drops drip, drip, drip. She did the same, and then he produced one of Lord Royce’s clean white napkins to bind their wounds.

“Very good,” he said. Then he seized her with both hands and kissed her on the open mouth.

*****

Their teeth knocked together and the shock rang through his skull. He pushed through the little pain, and his blood began to heat, and soon the throbbing left his head. _Her hands are cold but her mouth is not, and neither is her tongue. _With his right hand he gripped her tiny waist, his thumb stroking along the ridged path of her ribs, his other fingers lost in her hair. He let the fingers of his left hand creep down, down, down to her hip, and then he gave her firm rump a squeeze under her cloak. _My cloak. She’s mine, and no one will ever take her away_. She had a hand in his hair and another threaded through his beard, sliding along his jawline, and then the apple of his throat. He could feel the blood pumping beneath the pads of her fingers, fluttering beneath her soft breasts. His own heart was galloping away, a whole herd stampeding as if trying to reach Winterfell from Sunspear in under an hour. His hips started to roll forward and instead of stopping them he just pulled Sansa closer and closer until they were rubbing together down to the bone.

_Not yet._

He stopped himself and pulled back, feeling like he’d sprinted up all seven hundred feet of the Wall and down again, in plate and mail and heavy furs besides. In the flickering light of his torch he saw a dewy line of spittle stretching between them, ending at her lips, red and still parted, or rather, a shining drop of drool at the corner. _Even when we are apart, we are together. _Then the line broke, and the connection was gone.

_Not for long._

Every inch of him was iron, and she was a lodestone. All his muscles felt so tense, as if each fiber and sinew and drop of blood had spun beneath his skin and pointed towards her. _Go, go, go, _the god seemed to say. Or maybe it was his thoughts. It didn’t matter. They were going to go.

“Come now,” he said, and it seemed that the cloud that came out of his mouth was heavier, thicker, whiter. “It’s cold. I’ll be taking that back.” He fumbled with the flayed man’s head and when it was finally undone he stroked her white collarbones with each thumb. “Put yours on.”

When Sansa had her cloak back on, and he had his, and his sword too, he drew her to himself again.

“Bend your knees. A little lower. Just beneath my shoulder. There.” Then he swept his cloak around them both.

It must have looked like he’d gained nine stone, all on his left side. He wanted to chuckle, but the godswood was not a place for giddy chuckling.

“I can’t see.” Sansa was holding back her laughter too.

“You don’t have to see. Just hold on and follow me. It’ll be just like dancing.”

The steps back to his chambers were awkward. They wouldn’t have been if she hadn’t been stroking silly patterns into the crook of his elbow. More than once in his distracted haste he stepped on the hem of her pink velvet skirt and nearly tripped. It had been a good thing he’d kept close to the wall, or they’d both have taken a tumble and gone up in flames.

“Wait,” he said, once he’d opened the door and placed the torch in an empty sconce. “The bride must be carried into the bridal chamber.” He crouched and swept her off her feet, but not before running his hand along a smooth stocking from knee to ankle. The silk was so fine he could feel the gooseprickles rising beneath.

He put her down and claimed her mouth again, his hands in her hair and his chest and legs pinning her tight and flush against the door. She was responding in kind, leaning into him, clutching, grasping, as if the closer they came the more together they would be. When they broke apart, he waited ten heavy breaths, and then he stepped back to bar the door shut.

“There is a flayed man on your cloak, ser. I did not see it before.”

“Aye.” Of course there was. There was at least one flayed man stitched into every piece of clothing he owned. Some were small and hidden in the lining of the collar where only he could see. Some were large and proudly borne. This particular cloak had a flayed man, nearly life size, embroidered in black thread on black wool lined with sable fur.

“It was finely made.”

“Aye.” His cloak spilled onto the floor as he undid the buttons of his doublet. “I’ll have one made for you.” _She likes that._

“I am wearing the flayed man too, ser.”

That caught his attention. _She wears my colors and my sigil too. The gods have truly smiled on me this day. _He turned around to see her standing by his bed, hands folding together, looking at the floor. “Would you care to find it?”

_Of course I want to find it. _He was at her side in an instant, his hands at her wrists.

“Not on the sleeves.”

“No.” He spun her around by the waist, skimming his fingers along the bodice. Not there. It was bats, bats, and more bats, flying in the pink twilight. He walked her backward until she was sitting on the bed and pulled at her skirt until it was laid out flat like a tapestry.

Balerion and his fiery breath were stitched out lovingly in metallic thread. The great black dragon dominated the front of her skirt, wings splayed wide as he soared. Beneath it was the snarling weirwood that he’d looked upon day after day after day. She must have copied it from an illustration in a book because it was true to his memory. But it wasn’t the flayed man. _Where is it?_ He was getting impatient now. _It’s in the lining, she’s tricking me, I won’t find it out here. I’ll just cut the laces and she’ll tell me where it is. _But then she started to roll over, and the velvet draped so nicely over the curve of her bottom, and he started to wonder how on earth legs could look that long…

“Here,” she giggled, spreading her legs apart so the skirt was nearly flat again. _Perfect. _ “You’ll find it.”

Sprawled between her calves was Harrenhal, in all its sinister glory. When he’d left, he’d known that it would haunt his dreams forever, but not in this way. He’d never thought he’d smile when he thought of its crumbling walls or toppled towers. As he thumbed the square cross stitches with one hand and pulled at the velvet with the other the muscles in his face began to strain from his splitting grin.

“I found it.” The tower by her right calf wasn’t correct, for flying at its top were pink and red and white and grey. The flayed man of Bolton and the direwolf of Stark almost faded into the background, unlike the black-on-yellow and red and blue Whent and Tully standards that dotted the rest of the black stones.

_She put this there for me. _It was almost too much. The giddiness. The everything. What a delightful sight she was, red hair on pink velvet, one blue eye and the point of her nose turned back, just a peek. And thighs open, just for him. He’d never been so absurdly pleased before.

_Breathe. Slow. _

He loosened his breeches all the way and redid the knot at the very ends of the strings.

*****

Sansa couldn’t really see him through the hair that had fallen over her face. Through the curtain of red, all she saw were his white breeches, his red doublet hanging open to reveal a cream linen shirt. Her neck started to hurt so she stopped looking and nuzzled her cheek into the soft fur cover and closed her eyes. There was a bow on each hip to tie her gown together, and she felt Domeric’s hands glide up the sides of her legs to rest on them. She felt the tug of him playing with one of the knots, but then his hand was gone, and the knot was still there. She heard the click, click, click of his boots on the stone floor, and then the shuffle of them sliding off his calves, one after the other, and then the featherbed sank down in front of her face.

“Come here, wife,” he said, and it sounded like he needed a drink of water. She opened her eyes and lifted her chin and saw that he was sitting back against the pillows and the rune-carved headboard, legs stretched out and crossed. He had grey wool stockings, and they looked so soft.

“Sansa. Come here.” She pushed herself onto her knees and crawled forward to the spot he was patting with his hand. The first thing she noticed was that his eyes were different. Their dark centers were blown wide, and their normal pale just a ring around the edge before the whites began. The next thing she noticed was how warm he was. _He said he was cold just a little while ago, and yet he is not cold at all. _Perspiration dotted the hem of his shirt collar and when his fingers met her throat, her hands, the heat sank into her like water in snow.

When they were done kissing, he pushed the furs to the ground, shrugged out of his doublet and let it slip onto the floor, abandoned. It was so unlike him to let the fine velvet wrinkle like that. Domeric was very neat. He always folded his things, crisp and tight. _Men will take leave of their minds when they think they can bed a pretty girl_, Randa had said. Sansa swallowed.

_He has taken leave of his mind._

The thought scared her. She remembered the dismissive tone with which that Queen Cersei had spoken of the marital act, the flippant laughter that the Royce cousins had shared in the sewing room. _They made it sound so easy, _she thought. _Why isn’t this easy? _If there was a weapon between her legs than she was yet too weak to wield it for true. If she was a witch, she did not know any spells. All her boldness seemed to flee, and she began to shiver with cold.

Then his hands found the ties at her hips again, and then the knots were gone, and his fingers were working at the laces. _It’s better than a bedding, _she told herself. _It’s only Domeric. It’s not half a hundred lords. _She felt the heavy fabric of her gown flop away from her chest and back, and her heart continued to race. She brought her arms up to cover her bosom, and then she screwed her eyes shut. There were knuckles stroking her cheeks, then fingers in her hair, and then arms around her.

“Are you afraid?” He did not sound so hoarse anymore.

“Only cold.” He pulled back and she was colder. Then he was back and she could feel the linen shirt was gone. He pried one of her hands forward and placed it over his heart. He smelled like sweat and soap and forest. The skin of his hard chest was hot, and she felt a little bit of hair, thin and sparse. _His heart is racing too._

If there was magic being made, it must have been his doing. She was the one under the spell. She was moving through the steam off a hot spring, through a damp and dreamy haze, and she had been searching for a way out, and the only way to find her way out was to give herself over to his sorcerer’s hands, his wizard’s tongue. She herself could only fumble about and touch everything she could. But how could she find her way out when that tight, tense thing was trapping her from the inside?

Her eyes had drifted open by the time the next kiss was done, and her gown was gone, and her shift too, but Domeric wasn’t smiling anymore. There were angry creases on his brow. He scooted behind her and began to trace lines on her back.

_My scars. Those are my scars. He does not like them, he thinks they’re ugly. _Suddenly the world was back in place again, and the pleasant haze was gone, and all she felt was silence. _We’re going to stop_, she thought, and at once she felt both relieved and disappointed, because the world was back in place, but the tight trapping feeling was still there, and she did not know how to make it go away.

“Nothing like that will ever happen again. Not to my lady wife.” Domeric pulled her back into his lap and she let out a breath she did not know she was holding. “No other man will ever touch you again.” As he spoke his breaths heated her neck. “I love you, Sansa.”

She wriggled around to try and kiss him but his nose was in her hair once more, his grip on her tummy and her side too firm. His pokey man’s staff was rubbing against her bottom again, and sometimes when it would brush her just the right way the tightness would bring itself to the forefront of her mind. Then both of his hands were grabbing her hips, and he was lifting her up and out of his lap, and then he was standing at the foot of the bed. His long fingers wrapped around one of her ankles, and then she was sliding forward.

“Like back,” he said. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

*****

The bed was so high that he had to kneel on the trunk at its foot. He should have taken one of the blankets or the pillows off for the sake of his knees. There were puckered scars on the backs of her thighs when he pulled her silk stockings down by the garters, and he traced them with his first finger. _Never again. _

His anger died in a moment when he saw the damp shadow darkening her smallclothes.

*

She supposed that if a man could kiss your hand, or even your wrist, then he could kiss your ankles, too, and mayhaps your shins as well. But then Domeric started to kiss the insides of her knees, and then the soft flesh of her thighs, up then up then up. Her heart couldn’t have possibly beat any faster, and her face must have been so red. The heat was behind her cheeks and beneath the skin on her legs and bubbling deep in her belly. It must have been that thing inside, that tight tense trapping thing, that was warming her blood so. Every time he kissed her again, every time she met his gaze, the thing would get tighter, tenser. It did not want to be trapped anymore, and its frustration flared with heat. _Too hot, it’s too hot. _How could eyes that looked so much like ice make you feel so hot?

He drew his mouth away from her leg and gave her another look – _too hot – _and smiled a wicked smile. He was a warlock, a wizard, a sorcerer, and he was doing something wrong. The gods did not like magic. _Why there, why there, why would you kiss me there?_

*

As he kissed her she began to mewl and squirm, her thigh muscles clenching and pushing in against his hands. She peaked, and he was sure each time he closed his eyes he’d hear those warbling notes over and over and over for the rest of his life. It wasn’t loud, but it was so pure, so raw, all _her. _Sansa. He’d never be able to sing that stupid song again. All music was ruined for him forever. All sound. All those visits to the Birdhouse had bought him nothing but swill compared to this.

When she caught her breath, he stood up straight and rid himself of his remaining clothes. There was a dazed and sleepy expression on her face, and a dusty pink blush stretching from her cheeks to her breasts, full and bouncing with each inhale and exhale. Then her eyes began to clear, and her eyes raked downward, and her blush deepened to an obscene red. _How lovely. _Her mouth was so inviting. After a wet peck he bade her move back against the pillows, knelt down in front of her and tipped up her chin. “Did you like that, my lady?”

Her eyes were so large, so wide. So blue. They flicked up for a moment before falling down again.

“It’s all right to say yes.”

She nodded meekly before bringing a hand to her mouth. “It’s – it’s already – there is seed coming out – ”

“No there isn’t.”

Her eyes darted between his face and his cock, and her blush was so pretty, so sweet. So pink. “Should I – should I kiss you too?”

“No,” he said. “Not tonight.” He wrapped a hand around her smaller one, and with the other cupped her chin. “You know what is to come?”

Sansa gave another meek nod. _No one has ever touched her before. No one else will touch her after. It will only ever be me. _“You – your – that – my maidenhead…”

“Aye.” He pulled her hand away from her face and kissed the heel of her palm, and then he let go, and lay down next to her.

*

Domeric took her hand again and drew it to his face. He kissed the heel of her palm up to the tip of her middle finger, and then he laved her hand until it shone. She couldn’t look away from his eyes but she didn’t have to see to know where his hand was leading hers. His long fingers curled around her own, forming her hand into a grip. It was smooth and springy and warm, and when their hands glided upward together, his breath hitched. There was a bit of a bump when there was no more up to go, and then her thumb brushed a spot of something warm and slick, and then their hands were moving down again.

“Like that,” Domeric whispered, and he took his hand away. Her hand made the trip up and down a few more times, the heel grazed by coarse hairs at the bottom, before his hand was back to take hers away, and then he smiled again and kissed her cheek. “That’s enough.” It was still so hot, too hot, and his skin was even hotter. Just the touch of his fingertips against her shins was enough to start the thing inside to tighten again. He pushed apart her legs and settled over her, holding himself above her body by an elbow, and started to kiss her neck.

“You’re afraid.” She was.

“It will hurt…”

“Aye.” He brushed her cheek with his nose and stroked her head and kissed all along the rim of her ear. “Know that I love you and do not like your pain.” He kissed her again and she leaned up into him. If she focused on the good things she could forget the fear. His weight on her spelled a strange comfort and his hair in her fingers felt like silk. But when the length of him brushed her thigh, her tummy, she was reminded again of that feeling, when the tight thing got out, when her voice was no longer hers to command. _He is my husband and I am his wife. My body obeys him even when I know not how._

*

It had been long enough and he would wait no longer. He broke the kiss and held her gaze. _Blue_, he thought. They were so so, blue, like the Weeping Water in the bright sunshine, and they were shot through with white lines radiating out from the dark pupils, like ice crystals, or like stars. He felt her hand on his cheek, pulling him forward. He kissed her again, and then he took a breath, and then he began.

*

She gasped. It was more shock and discomfort than true pain but she bit her lip anyway.

“Now we’re truly married, aye?” he said against her face. Sansa couldn’t answer. _One flesh_, she thought. _We are one flesh, that’s what the septons say. _The septons must have been right, because when he was gone she started to notice the void inside herself, and the void didn’t want to be a void, it wanted him. Before she had been whole, herself, alone, but now it felt like something was missing when he was not there. But he kept leaving, and leaving, and how could it feel nice that he was leaving? _It’s not so bad. It’s not so bad. _She braced herself for pain, _where is the pain, I thought there would be pain, _but she only succeeded in making the tight tense thing’s frustration flare up again, and the thing took over her voice.

She tried to hold him to herself, to stop him from leaving, and as he moved she was reminded of the sensation she hated, when her moonblood was on her. _ It’s so wet. There must be so much blood. _She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to look.

*

_I can never play the harp again. This is the only sound I ever want to hear._ Not too loud, not too soft. Perfect. Sansa.

His skin was singing to him. It was singing, and there were thousands and thousands of singers, dotted all along the surface of his flesh. Each part of his body had its own choir, and they all harmonized together in one grand and pounding song. He could feel her breasts swipe and squish against his chest, her forearms rubbing against his shoulders, her fingers against his scalp, his nose against her temple, his knees and shins and the tops of his feet on the smooth silk. All the lines of him were sliding against all the lines of her, and her skin was singing to him too. Her skin was soft and white and smooth and her song said she was his. Their skin was singing together, and the togetherness was absurd. _She is mine, but I am hers. This girl. This girl. Sansa._

He let his skin sing to him some more. _We are one heart, one soul. I love her and she loves me. _Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck. She was moving too much. _Not yet not yet not yet. _But it was no use, and he felt his peak bursting from the base of his cock. In the back of his mind he realized he was never going to last that long. He kissed her mouth and leaned into her, and he closed his eyes, and he wondered if his soul still belonged to him.

*

She could feel Domeric’s heart beating against her ribs. So fast, it was, like a little beast trying to run out of his chest. The beast grew tired, and its steps slowed, and so did the rise and fall of his chest. He looked like he’d just had a long spar in the yard - his dark hair stuck to his forehead, a sheen of sweat on his face, glossing over the high color - and his smile said that he’d won. He pressed himself upward and wrapped her in a tight hug. Her hair caught between his fingers and the pillows, and when it tugged, she gave a little yelp. He chuckled as he extracted his hands from the tangles.

“My wife,” he said. “Sansa. How I love you so.” Then he planted sweet pecks all over her face, and she felt dimples form on her cheeks. His smile was even brighter when he pulled his face away.

“We ought keep this.” He had been holding her so close, and she had not bothered to count the seconds. It felt like she was lying under sun, if the sun was in his skin. She didn’t want to get up, but the sun was going away.

“Keep what?”

“The sheet.” Oh. She slid off the bed and into his boots, and he cursed when his bare feet touched the stone floor. There was the smallest smear of red on the white silk amidst the rest of the sticky stain. He stripped it off the featherbed and draped it over a chair before returning furs to the bed and putting their clothes back to rights in a neatly folded pile.

“Where is the rest of the blood?”

“There’s enough blood.”

“But I felt it. I was bleeding the whole time. It was wet.”

“Aye. It was wet.” His wicked grin was back, and he pulled her onto the bed again, and the furs around them both. He didn’t explain where the rest of the blood had gone. He hugged her tight again, his nose to hers, and then their foreheads, and then his nose again, and then he stroked a knuckle along one of her cheekbones. His eyes looked so bright, sparkling like ice in the sun. She’d never seen his smile so true. _He is so happy. This was not so bad as Septa Mordane said. It is more like how Randa and Ysilla told it. I could do this every night if he will be so happy._

She heard him speaking about southron weddings and septons and curses but his voice was far away. She pressed into his warmth and drifted into a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings from Waikiki Beach. I hope everyone in the US had a great Valentine's Day/President's day long weekend. 
> 
> I would ask for comments on how I did with this chapter. Please let me know if you felt cringe at any point where cringe was not intented (and cringe was intended with many of Sansa's thoughts, because Sansa lives in a world where young women do not receive educations on the reproductive system until either right before or right after they get married). Also Sansa deserves some slack because she left her mom really young and Septa Mordane's head ended up on a spike before she flowered. And then Cersei was her only teacher afterward, and her lessons with Cersei were like Septa Mordane's, only worse, because instead of "lie back and think of babies" Cersei talked about things like rape and being married to Joffrey and seducing men for gain and basically nothing that was healthy or nice or safe.
> 
> I am going to confess that I would have turned redder than a beet writing an uninterrupted conversation with Sansa, Randa, and Ysilla, which is why it got cut short. It would have been harder than the acatual chapter. I do much better with the political stuff... Cassandra and Jessamyn's discussion about the politics of the new High Septon would have been much more comfortable.
> 
> There is a modern AU waiting to be written (by someone other than me) where Littlefinger is the owner of a magazine company that puts out the Westerosi equivalent of Penthouse and Cosmo. Cersei is the editor for Weserosi Cosmo uner a pen name. Randa writes an advice column. Ami Frey writes those "10 types of guys you will inevitably sleep with, ranked" type articles. Margaery writes the tasteful advertainments of restaurants, charities, and travel destinations. Ros and Shae get interviewed. Cat does not know that Littlefinger runs this company. She just does not let his publications in the house.
> 
> Please let me know if you think this chapter merits upgrading this story to an E rating. Let your conscience be your guide! My conscience tells me that as long as this doesn't happen every other chapter we are cool for M but I sincerely don't know. I have more chapters where this type of content is included but it is much less than every other chapter. Also, I would like to know if it was just bad. Not my normal wheelhouse!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story with your kudos, bookmarks, comments, etc. See you all on 2/28 for the normal posting schedule. Aloha :)


	33. Robert III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert Ryswell attends a wedding at the Twins.

_“Move, move, move! ROW, you bastards! _You heard the report! Clegane will catch us if we don’t cross! _ROW_!”

Robert’s throat was sore, but that was the least of his problems. The rain was roaring in his ears and had long since soaked his hair. It seeped into his smallclothes beneath his leathers and was trickling down his hose to pool between his toes. Every so often the Trident would toss and they’d take on water, and Robert would have to bail out the boat himself while yelling at the men to keep the rhythm up.

_Fuck this, I’m so cold._

“Ready now! Thirty strokes to the riverbank! That’s thrice ten. _One! Two!...”_

Lord Bolton had complimented him for his knowledge of just how the autumn rains harried the Riverlands. “We should make oars before we leave Harrenhal. Make every man carry one. Boats too. The Ruby Ford will be too high to cross by the time we get there.”

So they made the oars and they made the boats, but that delayed them another day, and Clegane caught Ser Wylis’ rearguard anyway. One of the two resting rowers sighted Ser Wylis’ men taking axes to their boats before they were a hundred yards away from the south bank. _At least it wasn’t us._

The men were tired, so Robert was the last to leave the boat. He dragged it out of the muddy bank alone. The hempen rope slipped against his leather gloves, so he pocketed them. His palms had long been calloused.

There were axes left on the bank. That had been his idea too. He picked one up and made quick work of the nine-man dugout and waited for the remaining twenty-one boats in his party to clear the crossing before making for Lord Bolton’s tent. Rain pelted its pink flaps until they danced and wind spun the flayed man banner around the tentpole. Lord Bolton had a fire going at the center, and he went to stand by it. Ronnel and Roose were already there.

“You have crossed, young Robert. I am glad.” _Could you speak louder, my lord? I can’t hear you over the rain and the fire and my chattering teeth._

But he couldn’t say that. “Thank you, Lord Bolton. We lost none. All boats have been broken down.” He paused. “Ser Wylis has started axing. Clegane has caught him.”

Lord Bolton’s lip curled. “Then we must leave.” He turned to one of the Dreadfort captains. “Give the order to break camp.” _Blast it, I wanted to camp for the night. _“Ser Stout, Ser Condon, you will stay here and defend the ford. I leave you six hundred and give you leave to choose.”

_No, no, no, not Ronnel, Ronnel’s supposed to come with us, leave Greycliff and the Karstark men instead. _But ever dutiful Ronnel nodded his head and strode out into the rain, Condon exiting through the tent flap behind him.

***

They reached the Twins and at last he was dry and warm. That was the only good thing he could say about being back at the Freys’ packed, drafty, dingy castle. _At least we are being afforded room inside this time, _he thought. _One boon of Lord Bolton’s having taken Fat Walda to wife. _It was another story about the men, however. Before they left for their shared quarters, he got into an argument with Roose about the men’s sleeping arrangements.

“All our men can fit inside the barracks,” Roose snapped. “We should keep them out of the rain.”

“But the barrowknights can’t all be left outside. Come on, Roose, split the barrack space.” Roose didn’t bother continuing. He was rushing to get dry and warm himself.

Only a day later His Grace and the western host arrived. There was a meeting of the commanders to report to His Grace. The wolf wasn’t there, and Robert was mildly disappointed. But only mildly. Everything that was said was a recapitulation of what they had expected back at Harrenhal. Lysa Arryn had not replied to the request to cross the Vale and sail from Gulltown. They would be marching north to Moat Cailin at the year’s turn, in a fortnight, and would storm out the remaining Ironmen. It was not new information.

He spent the meeting studying His Grace’s face. _He does not look like a boy king, _Robert thought. _This is a man who has been touched by death. _His red-stubbled cheeks were gaunt, and his eyes were sunken and sad. The bronze and iron crown of winter sank dully into his dark red hair, which fell to his shoulders onto his mourning blacks. Robert would have given his condolences if His Grace had not rushed out of the room at the first opportunity.

_I’m sorry, _he thought. _I’m sorry. _He thought of his sisters and bit back pain.

The wedding in the sept was dreary. He’d sat behind Dom and next to Ronnel last time. Now they were both elsewhere, and next to him Roose sat glassy-eyed, back straight and staring at nothing. While the septon droned on and on he thought on his own impending marriage. _Lady Sara likes to laugh. I hope I’ll still be able to make her laugh when I get home_.

Roose declined to attend the wedding feast. “I’m staying outside with the men I left outside.” It was his loss, for food served in a castle always far outclassed food served in the camps. Robert missed him sore all the same. With Dom and Ronnel gone he was stuck at a table with Lord Bolton and Lady Walda, and every time Lord Bolton fed her something off his flaying knife, Robert thought he was going to miss a bone and choke on the char-broiled trout.

_Fuck, I can’t watch this. _

Lord Bolton gave a toast to his ten-year-old goodbrother Walder, and Walda’s cousin, another Walder, who Dom’s bastard brother was sheltering at the Dreadfort. _Is that a threat? Ramsay Snow is a deranged killer._ But Robert had resolved to do his best to enjoy himself, so he washed the queasy feeling down with some wine. Once he looked up and spied Pat japing with some other Rivermen across the hall, and briefly entertained the thought of rising to join their table. _I can’t do that. That’s rude. My place is here. I’ll catch up with Pat when the dancing starts._ How badly he wanted to talk, but no one at his table seemed to want to talk to him. So Robert stared into his plate and ate in silence for what seemed like an endless stream of courses.

At least the music was better than the last wedding. He commented on it, and it must have been the first thing he said that wasn’t a greeting the entire supper. “Lord Rosby lent us a singer,” Walda explained. “He trained in King’s Landing. We were going to have flautists and trumpets too. And pipers and fiddlers. But this one impressed Grandfather so much that he decided to bring out just the drummers and the chimes. They go better with a lone harpist.” The singing was fine. His harping wasn’t as good as Dom’s, but on the whole he was all right.

“Lord Bolton.” It was Catelyn Tully. _No, she’s Lady Stark, that’s her title. That’s her name. _Her deep red hair was done up in a tight widow’s bun, the kind that Aunt Barbrey had worn for as long as he had remembered. She wore mourning blacks too, with palm-length sleeves and a high collar, but that was where her resemblance to Aunt Barbrey ended. Where Aunt Barbrey’s face was weathered and worn by a thousand smiles and a thousand more frowns, Lady Stark’s was smooth and white, like a porcelain mummer’s mask. Grey lines had streaked through Aunt Barbrey’s hair where they had spared Lady Stark’s, despite the fact that they couldn’t have been more than five name days apart. But despite her harsh voice and her age, Aunt Barbrey always seemed to possess a lively energy that sparkled through her eyes. Lady Stark’s blue eyes were dull and sad and tired.

_She’s so weary. Weary of loss and death and fighting. She lost her father and her husband and her baby sons and her both her daughters too. Her sister ignores her and her last and eldest son is losing a war._

_I will never call this woman a loon again. _Dom was right, he had been disrespectful. Mother would be ashamed of him. _When we get home, I’m going to hug Mother so tight. _

Lord Bolton rose. “Lady Stark.” His lip twitched a bit and he bowed his head. “You have my most sincere condolences for the losses in your family.”

Lady Stark nodded tightly and took a sharp breath in. “Thank you, my lord.” Then she took both of Lord Bolton’s hands in her own quivering ones and looked him in the eye. “My brother told me about your letters. About the trades you proposed, and the parties to King’s Landing. How I wish…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “From the bottom of my heart, my lord, I wish your counsel had been heeded. You have my deepest thanks for all of your efforts.”

Lord Bolton ducked his head. “Thank me not, my lady, for I must confess my motives were not selfless. The efforts were all my son’s, as were the proposals. He spoke to me of the late princess’ importance quite often. Once your daughter had been freed, I had hoped to offer up his suit.” He paused. "I had hoped you might accept. And His Grace as well, of course."

Lady Stark sighed and squeezed Lord Bolton’s hands. Walda gave her a sharp look. “Would it were that we had accepted last your offer, my lord. The one from all those years ago. Ned and I. How things might have been different.” So that was what happened to Grandfather’s letter.

“How they might have.” Robert could barely hear Lord Bolton over the din of the feast. Lady Stark pulled her hands away and looked around.

“Where is young Domeric? I would thank him as well.”

“Alas, my lady, he was captured at Duskendale. Lord Tywin has promised me his safe return once the ransom has been paid.”

Lady Stark made a guilty face. “And I hope he makes good on his promise.” She pursed her lips. “Your son seems a fine young man.”

“A father can only hope so. His reputation does me credit.” Lord Bolton’s cold eyes flicked over to Walda, pouting and plump. “Pardon me, my lady, but my lady wife has begged of me a dance.” Then he turned to Robert. “Domeric keeps young Robert here in confidence. He could tell you more, if you wish.”

Robert gulped, nervous, though there was no need. After he gave his condolences, Lady Stark didn’t press, and he didn’t have to think about Dom’s absence anymore.

He wasn’t in the mood for dancing. At least three different Frey girls approached him, during _Black Pines _and _Wolves in the Hills _and _Meggett was a Merry Maid_. One of them was Alyx, he knew. The pretty dark-haired one with nice big teats, whose mother was from Braavos. He said some kind words to her in Braavosi and she walked away. The other two he didn’t know. They mustn’t have been of Crakehall stock, because he didn’t recognize them from Lord Bolton’s wedding. Instead he watched the dancers. His Grace was not among them, but Ser Edmure was, and he did not share his bride. Lord Bolton took another turn with Lady Walda, and her mother Lady Mariya too. And then he danced with Lady Stark.

_Is that what Dom would look like, dancing with his lady? _ Most like not. Dom was taller than his father, and Lady Catelyn was of a height with Lord Bolton. Dom would tower over a girl of five-and-ten. But the spinning pair in pink and black, red hair and raven – perhaps, if you looked right, out the corner of your eye. Lady Sansa could have worn black. She would have had much to mourn.

Lady Alyx came round again and struck up a conversation in Braavosi. That made him smile. He always enjoyed practicing with those with other mother tongues. After a few minutes, she was laughing and patting his arm. It was quite pleasant. Then she looked down with a blush, leaned into his ear, and said to him some words all sailors who’d been to Braavos knew. Her neckline was decidedly lower than when she came over and his throat was running dry. Robert gulped and forced his eyes upward. _Lady Sara is waiting for me. I cannot dishonor her. _As gently and politely as he could he let her down. When she rose and turned to leave it wasn’t insult or hurt or disappointment or even anger on her face. It was a hint of fear.

_That’s not right,_ he chided himself. _She’s just confused and upset with me._

There was nothing to be afraid of tonight. They’d left the Lannisters across the river. _Ronnel could be afraid - _

“Never known you to turn down a girl, Robbie,” came a voice.

Spirits lifted, Robert rose in a heartbeat. “Pat!” Pat gave him a clap on the back and handed him a cup of wine. “My friend. How have you been faring?”

“As well as one can, in times like these,” Pat said. “Look at these!” He held up his hand, and along with the silver-and purple ring he normally wore were several thick jeweled bangles of solid gold from the West’s bounty. “I won them off the Smalljon.”

“A rich man, you are, Pat,” Robbie replied. “You could drink Lannisport dry with those.”

“I could,” Pat said. “Or I could have every whore in the Riverlands. Or I could give them to my sons. Buy more hawks. I can do anything I want.” Pat guzzled down some of his own drink.

“I have been betrothed,” Robert said after a time. “Can’t very well keep carrying on like I have been.”

“Of course you can,” Pat snorted. “It’s war. A man has needs.”

“It’s more than that. I’m going to… It’s going to be hard. And can’t do something hard without practice first. So now, it’s hard, I’m practicing. Aye?”

Pat raised an eyebrow. “Suit yourself, friend. I suppose I must congratulate you. She’s a pretty girl, then? Enough to make you try to keep her bed, at least?”

“Aye.” Robert left it there, and they talked on other matters. Finally, Pat left with a serving girl that had caught his eye, and Robert felt alone again. He sat back down and watched the doors. _I should leave_, he thought. _Sleep, and mayhaps write a letter. Or go see Roose outside_.

Lord Bolton’s chinless squire Elmar was also making his exit. “Ser,” the boy said. “You’re leaving the feast.” _Of course I am leaving, why else would I be walking to the door? _Gods be good that one was thick. How did Dom have the patience to help train this one? How did Lord Bolton?

“Aye,” Robert said. “That I am, Elmar. What I am not is a knight. You know that by now. Dom’s the ser, not me.”

“That’s good,” Elmar blurted out. “Not that you’re not a knight. But that ser’s a knight. Not that there’s anything wrong with not being a knight. That you’re leaving the feast. I mean – ser, you shouldn’t be – where you don’t want to be – ”

“Of course, Elmar.” Robert pushed open the door and found it lighter than he expected. The force from his shoulder and the loss of the door’s weight left him skidding forward, downward, and he crashed into a familiar body.

“Roose?” he said, as his uncle helped him steady himself. The doors to the great hall swung back and forth behind them, back and forth, their movements warping the din of the feast.

“_Robbie_,” Roose hissed, eyes darting about in nearly panicked stress. “_Elmar_. If you would, please fetch Lord Bolton. Posthaste. You remember Nan, aye? Lord Bolton’s cupbearer? One of the lads found her outside, she says she needs to talk to His Grace, but she’s Lord Bolton’s, aye? We let her into the castle, but now, she, and her… her _guard_ have created a _situation_. Go fetch him, Lord Bolton, please, just go – ”

“No need for any fetching, Elmar, nephew,” came Lord Bolton’s voice, soft and smooth. “I was just leaving myself.” With Walda on his arm, no less. He turned to Roose. “Goodbrother. You have found my lost little cupbearer? How interesting. But this matter can surely wait until morning – ”

But a roar, a harsh barking growl, a young girl’s voice, and the clatter of a man-at-arms being knocked to the floor interrupted Lord Bolton before he could finish his sentence.

“I said I’m _Arya Stark_! Let me through! I’m a princess! My brother is the _king_! You have to let me in, my _mother_ is there, _Robb_ is there, let me in, _let me in! _Sandor, look – the door’s right there, we can go in, Sandor, let’s _go – ” _

Arya Stark? The girl was dead and everybody knew it. But there was a girl there, no doubt about it, and she was indeed Lord Bolton’s lost little cupbearer, brown hair, grey eyes, long face, knobby knees, and all. She looked a bit worse for wear, the dirt from the road caked into mud on her clothes from the rain, but it was her, and next to her was one of the tallest men Robert had ever seen even counting the Umbers. He was dressed like a farmer, but that was no farmer, not with those muscles, and _gods be good what’s wrong with his face he’s going to run right into me FUCK IS THAT HIS GRACE’S DIREWOLF – _

The Frey guards outside the hall were fucking useless. In that moment, Robert had a choice between securing the door, getting his throat ripped out by the Young Wolf’s wolf, and having his belly run through by the _fucking Hound _barreling at him at a speed no man that fucking big had a right to have –

“_DOWN!” _Robert shouted, and he grabbed Elmar by the shoulder, and he threw their combined weight into Fat Walda, and she smashed both the goodbrothers Roose onto the floor and out of the path of the doors.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, I just let Sandor fucking Clegane into the fucking hall with a fucking bloody sword – _

But there was no time to think, so he clambered back onto his feet and sprinted, unarmed, after the hound, the wolf, and the little bitch. He didn’t have time to grab a spear off the Frey guards, but Roose did, and then they were sprinting together to His Grace’s table.

“_YOUR GRACE!”_

_“YOUR GRACE!”_

The commotion had silenced the music and stayed the dancing, and the revelers had parted to let them pass. As Robert crashed towards the king’s table, he was dimly aware of Pat and Smalljon Umber and Robin Flint and Ser No-Saddlebags and the eldest she-bear rushing forward as well. But the Hound didn’t move to kill His Grace, he just knelt down and lay his sword on the ground, and the direwolf lay down next to him, and the girl wasn’t doing anything funny either, but His Grace had risen to his feet, and Lady Catleyn was covering her mouth, and then they were both scrambling around the table, and then they were kneeling on the ground and hugging the girl, the mud smearing their pale faces and ruining their mourning blacks.

_“My daughter,” _sobbed Lady Catelyn, tears tracking down her face as she planted kisses all over the girl’s filthy hair. _“_My daughter. My daughter. Arya, my sweet girl – ”

“Little sister,” said His Grace. There was mud on his doublet and mud in his beard, but his eyes looked so alive. “Arya. Arya. How I love you so. _I’m so sorry, _aye? _I’m so sorry…”_

“Well, fuck me with a bloody spear. It was her.” Roose was standing there dazed, the spear he’d stolen off the Frey man hanging limply in his grip. He shook his head and went to sit in the nearest empty seat, reached for the nearest cup of wine, and promptly drained it. Then he looked for the next nearest cup, and did the same, and then with another. Then he let the spear clatter to the floor and put his face in his hands.

Robert went to sit next to his uncle and watched the bizarre scene unfold. His Grace and Lady Catelyn and Princess Arya returned to the king’s table, chatting animatedly the whole while. Ser Edmure grabbed his wife by the hand and joined them. His Grace had bid Sandor Clegane to rise to his feet, clasped his hands, and bid him sit next to the Stark family as well. The direwolf slinked under the table, its tail brushing along His Grace’s knees. Out of the corner of his eye Robert glimpsed Lord Bolton striding into the hall, a pink ghost gliding along the walls to the table the Ryswells had claimed. Then Robert’s throat constricted. _Fuck, I knocked over his wife, what if she was with child? What I knocked the child out of her and she’s bleeding it out right this moment? _

If there was ever a time Robert thought he would be flayed, this was it.

“ – and then Yoren made me cut my hair and dress as a boy, but then they killed Yoren. The Mountain’s men – ”

Lord Bolton slid into the empty seat next to Robert, and Robert immediately opened his mouth. “My lord, I must apologize. Lady Walda, is she all right? Lord Bolton, I did not mean – ”

But Lord Bolton cut him off with a blank expression and a curling lip. “Be at peace, nephew. Better my wife suffers a fall to the floor than a sword to the belly. Walda is unhurt.” They were both watching the Stark table.

“I am glad.” Robert sighed and turned back to Lord Bolton. In that moment Lord Bolton looked just like Dom when he got upset, jaw clenching and unclenching. It would have been amusing if not for the blood still pounding in Robert’s ears. _This must be so embarrassing for him. Once the princess gets to the part about Harrenhal there will be questions. Lord Bolton had her pour his wine and attend his leeching sessions, but he never saw what was in front of his face._

Roose was staring into his newly filled cup. He shook his head and pushed it away, frowning. “I’m leaving.” His chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it out and back, and he kept to the wall on the way out.

“ – and then I got to Harrenhal – ”

“Harrenhal?” That was His Grace. “You were at Harrenhal?” The king scanned the room. “Arya, half my army was at Harrenhal. Why did you not reveal yourself to any of them?”

_Here it comes._

“Robert,” Lord Bolton said. “Would you pass me young Roose’s cup?"

“Aye, my lord. Here.” Robert pushed it over.

“Well when I got there Lord Tywin still held the castle – ”

“And you left before Lord Bolton arrived?” Lord Bolton took a slow sip.

“Well, no – ”

“No one recognized you?” That was Lady Catelyn, and she and His Grace were both glancing in Lord Bolton’s direction, which was Robert’s direction too. Robert looked down. “Not Robett Glover? Ser Helman Tallhart? Ser Kyle Condon? _Arya, _you’ve met them _all _– ”

“Mother, look at her, would you have believed she’s a highborn lady?” His Grace looked to his lady mother. “What were you doing at Harrenhal? Posing as a boy there as well?”

“No,” the princess said. “They knew I was a girl. I served as Lord Bolton’s cupbearer – ”

“Lord Bolton’s _cupbearer_? And still you did not say anything?” Lady Catelyn was staring at Lord Bolton now, as if to ask him if it was true.

“This girl was my cupbearer, I confess,” he said, not so soft, but so slow. The corner of his mouth was twitching. “She said nothing to me. My lady, if you would forgive my negligence. I have been to Winterfell. I should have recognized the princess. I assure you, had I known, she would have been at your side as soon as it could have been managed.”

“Of that I am sure, my lord,” said Lady Catelyn, her lips pursed. “Arya. Truly, they could not tell you were a Northern girl of noble birth? Nobody?”

“Not exactly,” Arya Stark mumbled. “Lord Bolton thought I was highborn. From the way I talked. But he didn’t know who I was. And Lord Bolton’s son, I thought he recognized me. He knew I was Northern. I would have said something if he recognized me for true. He said he knew my face, so said I was from Barrowton, and he knew Barrowton, and he believed me, so I knew he didn’t know me. He said he’d write to Lady Dustin, but what would that do? Lady Dustin couldn’t help me. She was far away, and you… you were closer… if I escaped, I could get to you. And now I’m here, aye, mother? Now I’m here.”

Robert couldn’t believe his ears. _This is a fucking farce._

“_Arya.” _Lady Catelyn gave her daughter another tight hug. “Yes, you are. You’re here. With me. Where you belong. But, sweet girl, we could have been together so much sooner. Why did you lie to Lord Bolton’s son? Why didn’t you say anything? My daughter. My daughter. You should have trusted them. We can trust the Boltons.”

“I – I – I don’t know. It’s just – they’re scary, aye? The leeches, and – and – and the flaying, and they killed Maester Tothmure, and Lucan the armorer, and Goodwife Harra, and the steward, and they never did anything wrong! And they made the serving girls – ”

Lord Bolton brought his palms together and placed them over his mouth and nose, as if praying, or shielding himself from a rotten smell. Robert thought he heard him sigh, but he couldn’t read his eyes. Lady Stark was stroking the girl’s muddy hair.

“Arya, _we are at war_. You cannot expect – well. And you ought apologize to Lord Bolton! That was very rude of you to say about him and Ser Domeric. They are our leal bannermen. Remember your courtesies – ” she turned to Lord Bolton. “My lord, I am so sorry. This girl, I have tried to teach her – ”

“The fault is none of yours, my lady,” Lord Bolton said. “It is all mine.” It truly wasn’t. Then Lord Bolton slowly turned his head around, and a Frey was standing at his shoulder, one Robert hadn’t seen before. “If you would excuse me, my lady, I must needs speak to Lothar here. I asked him to fetch me when my wife had need of me. She was much shaken by tonight’s events.”

“Of course, my lord. Good night.”

“Good night, my lady. I hope to speak with you on the morrow.” Lord Bolton ducked his head and exited with Lothar Frey.

While their mother’s attention had been claimed, the Stark siblings had resumed their animated conversation. Lady Stark returned to her children and whispered something to her royal son, who then thanked Clegane profusely, and promised him an unbelievable sum of coin and a position of honor in their service before dismissing him from the hall. The Hound had long since taken his fill of food. The direwolf was licking the mud off Arya Stark’s clothing, and his tail was wagging with prodigious speed. Around the hall, the music had resumed. The singer had taken up an upbeat and lively tune, and the dancers had descended back onto the floor.

_It’s not so bad anymore. The mood is better. Perhaps I’ll stay for the bedding after all. The harp is good, and the singing’s good._ Robert closed his eyes and imagined it was Dom playing from the gallery. _Aye, I’ll stay._

The singer made his way through _When Willum’s Wife Was Wet, _and then _The Bear and the Maiden Fair. _Then came _Six Maids in a Pool, _the _The Lusty Lad_, and then _The Name Day Boy. Two Hearts that Beat as One _was next, and then _Oh, Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass_, which bridged into _My Lady Wife. _That reminded him especially of Dom. It sounded like a set he’d put on in Barrowton.

_You would have been praised tonight, Dom. Lady Stark would have made sure. _Robert drank. _My brother, I hope you’re back soon. _He took another swig. _Aye, and Ronnel too._

There was a great groan from the doors to the hall opening very very slowly. Someone had wheeled Lord Walder back from his evening retirement, and the ancient weasel began to clap his hands. The music stopped and the dancers fell silent. “Heh, heh,” the old man chuckled, as his squeaky wheels bore him to the king’s table. “I hear our feast has gained a guest of honor. Princess Arya, welcome to the Twins! My future gooddaughter.” He looked around the room. “Elmar! Son! Where are you, boy? Come out and meet your bride!”

Robert had forgotten that Arya Stark had been betrothed to Lord Bolton’s squire.

“Father! I’m here!” Elmar scurried out from a corner. Then he took a knee. He could recognize the girl too. “My princess,” he squeaked, his voice shaking with equal parts confusion and dismay.

Arya Stark gaped, her nose scrunching and upper lip curling in obvious disgust. “His bride? Elmar? The Leech Lord’s squire? No, Mother, you can’t – he’s – he’s _stupid, _he’s a – a coward – he’s afraid of leeches, he can’t even clean armor properly – Mother, it can’t be – you can’t make me get married, Mother, _Robb, _I won’t, I just got back – ”

Robert looked at poor Elmar kneeling on the floor and felt the boy’s humiliation creep into his chest. _No one deserves that._

“_Arya,_” Lady Stark hissed. “Lord Walder. I am so sorry. My daughter has had quite the ordeal. Now that she has eaten, I would have her retire for the night and get herself clean. When she is more presentable, we may conduct a more formal introduction. Would that please you, my lord?”

“Please me?” Lord Walder said. “Heh, heh. I suppose. Go on, girl. Have a bath, a bed. Tuck in for the night. The Twins are yours.” Servants came to usher the princess away. Poor Elmar came to sit next to Robert, looking shaken, and the dancing and the music started up again, as if to spin away the shame.

“Elmar,” Robert said. “Are you all right? I’m sorry, lad, that was hard to watch. You’re not stupid, aye? You’ve gotten better at cleaning armor. You hear me, lad? It’s all right. Very few who aren’t unsettled by the leeches. It’ll – it’ll get better, aye? She – Princess Arya, I mean – she might never warm up to you, but once you’re her husband, she’ll have to respect you, aye? For her own sake. She’ll have to treat you kindly, or she’d be miserable too. It’ll be her loss. Just. Be kind to her too. Try. It’s all right. You’re a good lad, Elmar – ”

But Elmar only shook his head and looked down at the table in silence. A few more songs passed, and then the familiar notes of _The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown_ filled the air, which hailed the raucous laughter and the bedding. The dancers broke apart and quickly mobbed Ser Edmure and Lady Roslin, and they were being carried away.

“Ser,” Elmar said. “I mean – Lord Robert. Do you think. Erm. That you could come with me? Leave the feast?” Elmar was still looking at the table. The cups were all half empty, and flies were buzzing around the leavings of food. “It would. I think. Be good. If we could leave, and go talk – ”

_He’s asking me for help_. _By the gods, he needs it. _But Robert wanted to stay and listen to the music. “I’d be happy to talk with you, Elmar. We can chat here. Hear that music? No one could eavesdrop over that. What is it, lad – ”

“No! We have to leave!” Elmar blurted out. Perhaps he was embarrassed to talk even in the sight of other people. “I mean, ser, I would prefer – I think it would be better if we left the hall – ”

Robert frowned. “Perhaps tomorrow, then? This harper is quite good, I’d like to hear him play – ”

“We could go. To the gallery. That’s where the harper is. How about that?”

“Aye, that will serve.” So up they went. Robert took a position by the rail in a corner, the musicians a bit ways off. There was quite a good view of the hall, full of tables and dancers and bright colors in the torchlight. At the far end he could see Lady Stark and His Grace whispering to each other, and he would have watched more, but Elmar had need of him. “Elmar?”

“Ser,” the boy said. “I – ” he was struggling. Poor lad.

“It’s all right, lad, take your time.”

“It’s – ” Elmar was truly having a rough time finding his words. Robert gave him a sympathetic smile and leaned against the rail. Familiar opening notes filled the air, and he began tapping his foot to the catchy upbeat rhythm, and right when he expected came the first line:

_“At night the wolves went out to prowl…”_

But the song was different. Not the tune, but the words. They were deriding His Grace, and japing not just at his dead sister, but his dead father and dead brothers and his lost castle too. Each time the chorus came round the hall grew quieter and quieter until all that could be heard was the harp and the singer’s voice. _Is this the version they sing in the capital? This is awful. It’s an insult. It’s a mockery. Are the Freys still so cross about Jeyne Westerling? _

_What in the seven hells is going on? _

Before the last chorus Lady Stark rose in rage. She drew up tall and straight and proud, and there was no trace of the broken woman that he’d spoken to before. “How dare you,” she levelled at the gallery in an acid tone. “_How dare you? _My sons. _My daughter – ”_

_THWACK. _A bolt pierced Lady Stark’s throat, and she fell on the ground, twitching until dead, and stunned gasps echoed off the walls. The direwolf started to howl. _Did the bolt come from up here?_

_THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. _Screams and crashes and howls cut short. There was no time to look. _The stairs, the stairs, I have to get to the stairs –_

But there were Frey men blocking the stairs, and pouring forward from the recesses of the gallery and swarming along the rail were Bolton and Karstark men with crossbows. He knew it by their faces if not by their cloaks, for they all had the look of smallfolk dressed in lords’ finery. Robert clutched at the railing and turned to look at Elmar. The boy crouched, and Robert did too, both of them pressed up against the bars and balled up as small as they could possibly be.

One of the crossbowmen in the gallery turned around and started when he caught sight of Elmar, and of Robert. He was neither a Karstark nor a Bolton, but a Frey. Lothar, it was. Robert remembered. Around him he could hear frantic footsteps and sobs and screams and the _thwack thwack THWACK _of the crossbow bolts. He whirled around, and there were Bolton men behind him too. _Out out how am I going to get OUT - _

_“Elmar_!” Lothar Frey hissed. “What is _he _doing here? _We have to get him out – _”

Then there was a crash of something solid and pain in the back of his head, and Robert’s sight went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the slight suspension of disbelief required for this chapter to work.
> 
> I am sorry if any of you hoped this event would not happen in this AU but alas, it was already in the works before the battle of Duskendale. In the many Red Wedding AUs out there I don't think I've seen one turn out quite like this.
> 
> Remember the scene in ASOS when Sandor got really drunk after he found out about Sansa's marriage to Tyrion? And how he goads Arya about Sansa when he tries to get her to mercy kill him? I think hearing that Sansa was dead at an inn somewhere would have caused them to bond and pour out their hearts in regret, and spurred them on to cooperate and travel more efficiently. 
> 
> There is an interesting story behind how Roose Ryswell came to find Arya, Sandor, and a loose Grey Wind. But it does not belong in this one.
> 
> I hope I didn't make Elmar seem too much like Podrick Payne. The few lines we received from him were at Harrenhal, where he is the head honcho's squire, so he was a tad more proud there. Here, he is just Walder Frey's youngest son. The bottom of the totem pole, basically. People act differently depending on setting and company.
> 
> I hope Robert doesn't come off as too stupid here. He's been drinking and he's been trying to suppress the unpleasant/lonely/homesick feelings and keeps on telling himself to be happy and take advantage of opportunities to enjoy himself. So he ignores his gut. He's an open minded and empathetic person who's willing to reevaluate his opinions of people, I hope that makes up for it. My goal is just to make him a believable OC who fits into the world.
> 
> Catelyn's lines I read to myself in Michelle Fairley's voice. A couple weeks ago I found an awesome fancast for Catelyn that wasn't Michelle Fairley while reading the news. I can't remember the lady's name, but she is the wife of some US politician who is significantly taller than her husband. Does anyone know who I am referring to? It's really bothering me that I forgot the name. I can't even remember the politician's party smh, here I am looking at the senate/congress roster banging my head against the wall. I bet he was a governor or something. Oh well.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story with your readership, comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. See you all next time! :)


	34. Robert IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert spends his first day a prisoner at the Twins.

_Clankety clank clank clank clank._

Behind his eyelids Robert saw red streaked through with purple veins. There was light in the room, coming from somewhere in front of his face. He didn’t dare open his eyes – from the stab that shocked through his face with each and every _clank_ of something iron, he knew he could not bear the light.

He took stock the things he could sense without seeing. A stiff neck, tightness in his right shoulder, an ache on his right side, warmth on his right ear being crushed under his weight. _Bed, this must be my bed, I’m in my chambers._ He wiggled his arms. His hands were bound in front of him. The shackles weren’t too tight, for he felt no signs of chafing when he rubbed his wrists back and forth. He breathed in and coughed, and then wrinkled his nose. A sneeze shook him. Dust, dust, so much dust.

_Clankety clank clank clank clank. _

“You’re awake_,”_ came a voice he knew. Robert opened his mouth to reply but his mouth felt like it was stuck closed, as if someone had slipped tar between the rows of his teeth.

“Roose?” he managed. Lead, his tongue was lead, and the sound of his voice was steel, and it was going to split the back of his head open.

“Aye.”

“Are the chains any weaker for your shaking them?”

“No.”

“Stop it, then, aye?”

“If it pleases you.” He could hear Roose hock back and spit. _There, Roose is over there, he’s on the ground, and I’m on the bed. _ Robert hoped that Roose was spitting out whatever thing was souring his tone.

Robert took a breath and squinted his eyes. _The light’s not so bad. If I open them slowly, it won’t be so bad. _He was indeed in a chamber, and he was indeed with Roose, and he was indeed on the bed, and Roose was indeed on the floor, but the chamber wasn’t theirs. His uncle was shackled, too, but his hands were bound behind his back, and his ankle was chained to the bedpost. There was light streaming through the gap in the grey curtains, dull through the dusty windowpane. The sconces in walls bore dead torches, and all the candles were out. An orange glow seeped underneath the door, spilling onto Roose’s face. A deep purple bruise was forming beneath the socket of his left eye all the way down to the side of his scowling mouth. His lower lip was split, dried blood from the wound caking over his swollen left cheek.

“How long?”

“A night and a morning,” Roose said. “Past noon, it is. The shadows pointed left, but now they’re pointing right.” Roose hocked back and spat again. His tone was even but his scowl had deepened. “I was brought here first. When I got to the camps it had already started. The slaughter.”

“Who?”

“Errold. Maron. Henrick. Half our men. _Outside_.” Roose nearly growled that last part. “_You had me put them outside_.”

“How – ”

“The Karhold captain. Greycliff. He had one look at me and slammed me down against the castle wall before the Freys could get to me. I wasn’t armed. I couldn’t stop it. The camp burned. They’re all dead, I say. They have to be.”

“Roose – ” but Roose wasn’t talking to him anymore. He was ranting at the air.

“They’re in league with each other. The Karstarks. The Freys. They did it. Traitors. _Scum - _”

“The Boltons,” Robert cut in. “The Boltons too.” That got Roose to stop. “They were in the gallery. With crossbows. They shot them. So many.” It made his head pound just to think about.

“Who?”

“I don’t know. There was screaming.” He closed his eyes and tried to remember. _Pat, Pat, you left the feast, didn’t you, Pat?_ He gave a hollow cough. “Lord Bolton said the war was going to end soon.” _And now the war is over._

Roose gave him a hard look and fell silent.

Robert must have fallen asleep a second time, for his head started up the pounding again when the door slammed open. “Up,” came a voice. It must have been a Frey. There were more dark figures behind, shades in the dim torchlight. 

“I said, _up_.” Roose stood up from the ground, and they unchained his leg from the bedpost. Then Robert scooted down to stand on the floor, and his shackled hands were chained to Roose’s.

“Walk. Follow me.”

Roose walked in front, matching the Frey’s uneven pace. _Lothar, aye, I met him yesterday. Dark curls and a pointy beard. At least he isn’t walking fast._ But Lothar Frey walked with a cane, and every time it butted the ground with a soft boom, Robert felt the sound against his skull.

He had to match his uncle’s steps. _Left, right, left, right. _Then there was a light, and a door, and then they were in a flat, carpeted corridor, and the walking was not so hard, and Lothar Frey’s cane no longer boomed. It was less loud, but it was brighter, and the light made it burn behind his skull.

They rounded corners and corners and corners. _I fucking hate this castle so much._ Then they were in a corridor that Robert remembered, and then they were in front of those heavy oak doors to the Great Hall again, and the damned things swung open with a groan.

Nearly all the trestle tables had been pushed to the sides of the room, and the high table too. To the sides, away from the dais where the ancient Lord of the Crossing sat, grinning like the vile stoat he was. Behind him hung a banner, a hastily-stitched hatchet job, gold and black and crimson and gold again, the crowned stag of Baratheon and the roaring lion of Lannister. Immediately beneath the dais, though, at the one where the king sat the evening past, was a thing on which his eyes refused to settle. There were other places to look, like the floor.

The bodies were gone, and the Freys had obviously tried to clear away the pools of blood, but their attempts had been too late to stop the rusty red from seeping into the stone. There were clear wheel tracks leading from Lord Walder’s seat to the spot before Robert’s feet, a set of bloody fangs in a giant viper’s mouth. _Did he watch the whole thing? What a disgusting old man. His heart is more shriveled than his body._

Robert didn’t want to look at Lord Walder either.

To the left there were people. Northmen. Lord Bolton, for one, he saw, and Lady Walda too. Clad in pink, the both of them were, arm in arm, and clearly without chains. Walda looked like she hadn’t taken a tumble at all, without a bruise to see. Perhaps that was a boon from being so fat. Her chins wiggled as she turned to gaze at him, and her watery eyes flicked back and forth between Roose and himself before settling forward again, with as little feeling as she could muster. _Is that what happens when you become a Bolton? Your eyes die and your face becomes a mask? _He thought of Dom for a moment. _Dom, Dom, you’re so lucky you’re not here._

Besides Walda, there was another noble lady, this one dark of hair and eye. A Northwoman. _Jonelle Cerwyn, aye, that’s her. _She was plump and plain, but her silver gown was fine, and no one could doubt who she was from the battle-axes sewn into her skirts. She had been at the feast too, and she had left early. The rest of the thin throng was men, Northmen and riverlords, all in chains, save for Karl Greycliff, and Lady Roslin. Robert noted Pat, hair tousled, steely-eyed and scowling, still in his purple velvets from the evening prior. There was the Greatjon, gagged and bound to a chair, rage apparent even as he sat still, and dejected Edmure Tully, death in his eyes as he ignored his new wife. There was at least one Glover captain, and a Mormont captain too, and men from the mountain clans whose names he did not know. Lothar Frey hustled Robert and Roose towards the group, and went to stand next to his father. Their footsteps and the rattling irons echoed throughout the hall.

“Well. Our guests have all arrived. It is time to begin.” Lord Walder clapped his hands twice, and one of his uncountable progeny passed him a scroll. A herald’s trumpet blared, and Lord Walder began to read.

“‘To the lords of the North and of the Trident. By the mercy of His Grace, Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, I, Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, do hereby offer amnesty and a full pardon to any house that ceases all treason, sedition, and rebellion, lays down their arms, and bends the knee to the Crown and the Iron Throne. House Baratheon of King’s Landing welcomes all who would do right by the law. I do hereby grant Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, all leave and authority to receive your oaths of fealty on King Joffrey’s behalf.’ _Heh. _Now. Did you all hear that? Bend the knee to Joffrey, say the words, and be free of your chains. Or stay on your feet and follow the Young Wolf to the fate of traitors.” He motioned with his left hand.

There, tied to a seat just before the dais off to the right, at what had been His Grace’s table, was the corpse of a man. The black velvet doublet, muddy and bloody both, was riddled with holes, and hands, white and stiff and waxy, curled over the wooden armrests. _It’s not him, there is no head, it can’t be him, I didn’t see it. _But who could it be, other than him? _They took his head and are sending it south. Lord Tywin would want that. _The dead direwolf’s snout lay in its master’s lap, the bronze-and iron crown tiny on its giant head.

Before His Grace knelt his guard. Dacey Mormont, once elegant in green, was propped up by stakes, trapped in death in a deep curtsey. Wires held her slashed skirts to her fingers, her arms away from her sides. _She’s facing him, that’s good, I do not want to see. _Beside her, gangly Lucas Blackwood was tied to several planks, his shaggy head slumping forward. Likewise knelt Robin Flint and Owen Norrey, and Smalljon Umber too. The figure in teal silks lying prone on the ground could only be Ser Wendel, for who else would be too fat to support with wooden beams?

Then there was Lady Catelyn, wrapped in a Tully banner, like a blanket, her red hair free from its widow’s knot and streaming down her shoulders. They had lain her in a riverboat filled with rushes. If not for the ragged hole on her neck, she could have been asleep. His throat constricted. _No, no, they shouldn’t have killed her, no. She’s a lady. You don’t kill highborn ladies… _He felt the hot pricking behind his eyes. That had been quite enough looking.

“Lord Bolton. Step forward. By right of kinship I bid you come first. Come, Walda. Granddaughter. You as well. There’s a girl.” The pair in pink approached the dais and knelt, and laid their hands atop Lord Walder’s. The high ceilings and drafty hall carried Lord Bolton’s words, even and mild. He did not need to raise his voice to be heard.

“I, Roose Bolton, on behalf of me and mine, do swear to Joffrey Baratheon and his heirs, my faith and my loyalty. I will love all that he loves, and hate all that he hates, and shall never do him wrong or harm, by word or work, by will or force. I shall come when he calls and follow when he leads. I shall yield up my heart and hearth and harvest, my swords and spears and arrows, and I bind my heirs after me, so long as he and his grant mercy to my weak, help to my helpless, and justice to all. So I do swear, with a free will, a sound mind, and a pure heart, by the old gods and the new.”

Robert could hear the grin in Lord Walder’s voice. “And so you shall have it, from Joffrey Baratheon and his heirs. Mercy, help, and justice.” Lord Bolton and Lady Walda’s hands fell away, and Lord Walder clapped again. “By the mercy of King Joffrey, be pardoned. In his name, I bid you do justice. Rise, Roose Bolton, Warden of the North.”

A muted gasp went up behind him. Robert could hear the Greatjon’s muffled roar, the giant’s chair scraping against the stone floor. The shackles chafed against his wrists as Roose jostled the chains. “_Despicable,” _his uncle hissed under his breath. “That’s not how you win a war. That’s not how you make a peace. Guest right. They broke _guest right. _They gave us _bread and salt. Kingslayers. _Gods curse them! Despicable. _Despicable – _”

Robert yanked back. “_Roose, shut up_,” he countered. “The Lannisters have Dom – ”

“One knight is not worth _a crime against the gods. _Dom would say so too. He would not stand for this – ”

“Surrendering with a sword at your throat is not _standing for it _– ”

But Lothar Frey butted his cane on the ground, and the hall fell silent again. Lord Bolton and Lady Walda fell back into the throng, and Lady Jonelle stepped forward to swear her vows and bend the knee. The Greatjon was next. Ser Aenys and Ser Hosteen and their brother Merrett had to push his chair to the dais. When they removed his gag, he spat.

“Curse you, Frey,” he growled. “I will join my son and our king. House Umber knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. We stand for Her Grace, the Queen in the North.” _That’s right, they have her. _But where had she gone? Locked away upstairs, most like. _Her claim is no use when she’s their hostage too._

“Very well, _heh_,” Lord Walder began to cackle, but Lothar touched his shoulder and whispered in his ear, and Lord Walder’s stoat face pinched. “What a pity. You are too precious for the noose, it seems.” They took the Greatjon away.

Robert and Roose were called up next. Robert looked to the uncle who’d always been his brother. Would he choose his death? _Roose, Roose, don’t be stupid, Roose… You’re too smart to be stupid. Don’t be a martyr when you’ve a whole life to live. _Gods, no, Roose, _no, _but he could see it in his uncle’s face, hard-set and fearless as they walked. _He has no love for Robb Stark, but he has less for blasphemy. _Robert felt his heart sink. He pictured Roose frantically kicking, swinging, his face turning black. _I can’t let him do that. We’re supposed to go back together. We’re all supposed to go back. Forgive me, Roose, forgive me. It seems you’re dearer to my heart than a heart tree ever was. I must love the gods not so much at all. _Before Roose could say anything, Robert yanked them both downward, his knees screaming when they slammed the bloody stone.

“Fuck you, Robert. Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you – ”_

“_Roose. Shut up_. Just – we’ll wait for Grandfather, aye? We are not in agreement. It looks bad. Whatever we do, we kneel or we hang together.” _Grandfather will have us kneel both and he knows it too. _“We kneel or hang _together_.”

Roose grimaced at him and grunted in assent. He was silent after.

“Thank you – ”

But then the Lord of the Crossing coughed with phlegmy _ahems_. “Taking a right long while for you to swear your vows. Arguing over the words, are you? Don’t bother. Come here. Touch my hands. Speak a little louder.”

Robert gulped but he did not move. _Stout of heart and brave of soul._

“My lord,” he started, through the pain, the pain _everywhere_. “I am the eldest son of the eldest son of the Lord of the Rills. I am not the lord, and neither is my uncle here. My lord, we have no leave to swear an oath to you. It is not our place.” _Bow and scrape, bow and scrape. Roose needs time to think this over. _“My lord, I beg your leave to write a letter, to know my grandfather’s mind. We shall kneel only at his behest.” He did not need to see Roose’s face to sense his rage. “Until then, my lord, we are your hostages.”

“No answer, heh? Very well, boy. Write your letter.” A Frey man led them back. Roose walked in front, shoulders tight, back straight, furious. Robert peered around his shoulder and met Pat’s eyes. His friend was gritting his teeth, nostrils flaring in plain disgust. _Pat, I had to, don’t you see? They have Dom, Pat. Grandfather was going to bend the knee anyway. I couldn’t let Roose die for nothing. _Pat was led up next, and like the Greatjon, he spat in Lord Walder’s face.

“I am my father’s heir, and my father taught me _honor_, Frey. A Mallister flies above the rest. Take me to the king I serve.” But Pat was too important to kill, and they took him wherever the Greatjon was instead.

No one bothered bringing up Ser Edmure. They were not going to kill him when he had taken a Frey bride just the night before. He would not die until Lady Roslin had borne a son. _Why is he here? They are just humiliating him. _But perhaps that was the point.

Karl Greycliff came after, and he bent the knee. After that came the men Robert did not know from the western host. The Glover and Mormont captains, and the officers from the mountain clans. These men would fetch no fat ransoms, held no important lands. They all spat in Frey’s face, they were all taken away, and they would all hang. Then the rivermen were next, and most bent the knee, and then it was all over.

Robert let a long breath go. _Finally, it’s done. We’ll go back upstairs and I’ll talk things through with Roose. We’ll write to Grandfather, and then get Dom back, and then Ronnel too. One more night, and we will be closer to home. _The Freys filed the remaining prisoners out of the hall, and Robert almost felt relieved.

But those who remained weren’t led to their chambers, or to any cells, and their chains were not removed. _It figures, they would lie to us, even if we knelt. _They were led outside, to the river, and the famous bridge shielded them from the rain. The Freys arranged them all in a line, Ser Edmure and Lady Roslin and the Boltons close to the water, and then Jonelle Cerwyn, and Robert and Roose beside her, and then some rivermen. Men-at-arms from the Karhold and the Dreadfort and the Twins stood at attention along the castle walls, watching, waiting.

When the throng of prisoners had been properly lined up, Robert saw a procession of Freys that had followed them out of the castle. Not Lord Walder, but Lothar, there was, and Ser Aenys, and Ser Hosteen, and Merrett, and more he could not name, who carried a boat on their shoulders. And her. The girl. _Arya Stark. _They’d cleaned her up and stuffed her in a plain grey gown, and covered her hair with a scarf so she would look less like a boy. Like the Greatjon, she was gagged, and they had bound her hands as well. Her stance was tense and her eyes kept darting left and right, as if she was looking for the best way to escape.

Even with the people standing between them, Robert could feel the wind from Ser Edmure’s sharp turn. It was the most life he had shown all day. “_Arya!” _He shouted. Then his features twisted. “Ungag her. _Ungag her, _I say! She’s just a girl, a _child_! _Ungag her! _She won’t harm anyone – ”

“Won’t harm anyone?” chided the Frey charged to keep her. His dark beard made his sneer all the more sinister. “So you say. I will tell you, this one – ”

“Ungag her, and unbind her too.” It was Lord Bolton. Out of the corner of his eye Robert could sense the Dreadfort and Karhold men straightening, their hands reaching for their swordbelts. The Frey men tensed in response. “Walder. Lothar. I am the Warden of the North. Arya Stark is under my protection. I will ensure that no one comes to harm.” He turned to Ser Edmure. “Lord Tully. Which is your preference? To secure your niece’s person or to set the boat afire?”

Ser Edmure’s face turned to the riverboat, and then to the girl. He closed his blue eyes and sighed, and tear tracks glinted bright on his cheeks. The autumn wind set his whiskers to dancing. “I will hold her.”

“So be it, then.” Lord Bolton set his pale eyes on Lothar Frey. “The keys, Lothar.” The cripple’s cane squelched each time he pulled it out of the muddy bank and pushed it in again, loping forward. Lothar handed Lord Bolton the ring of keys, and Robert could not hear their exchange.

“My lady,” Lord Bolton said to the girl, after he had released Ser Edmure, his jaw clenched very tight. “Please do not run, my lady. Your uncle is here. He will keep you safe.” Ser Edmure knelt and gripped her by the shoulders while Lord Bolton unlocked her shackles. _His hands look just like Dom’s_, Robert thought. His fingers were so long_. _When Lord Bolton was done, the girl slumped back into her uncle’s waiting arms, and then Lord Bolton cut off the gag. He sheathed his knife, and a Frey handed him arrows and a bow.

Upriver Ser Hosteen and Ser Merrett and the rest had laid the boat down. Six Frey men gathered at the stern, bent over and ready to push. The seventh uncorked a crystal bottle of what Robert knew to be oil and poured.

“No,” sobbed the girl, as Ser Edmure clutched her tight. “No, no, _mother, NO – ”_

But the Freys launched the riverboat and guided it to the current, and Lord Bolton shot a flaming arrow, and not even the rain could stop Catelyn Stark’s corpse from going up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter major ripple 2: No Lady Stoneheart. I didn't know how to make that plot work in the story I wanted to tell. Also. Cat is one of my favorite characters and what happened to her in the books was just so... awful. When you take Cat and Beric together, being a fire wight seems a lot worse than being an ice wight. At least it seems that an ice wight is just a reanimated corpse with no trace of the past self, but a fire wight? That's a soul frozen in various stages of undead ex-humanity. I don't think there is a more evil fate possible. Just let them die in peace please :(
> 
> I'm pretty sure that LSH will have a role in Arya and possibly Jon's arcs down the line in the books but... search me for predictions. I've seen various ways that the LSH plot can turn out, and they are all sad.
> 
> If you are puzzled by Roose Bolton's behavior here, this is the guy who tried to get Reek to take a bath and dressed him up in nice clothes. IMO Roose cares a lot about optics and looking reasonable, and Ramsay just doesn't understand.
> 
> Also: an announcement. I am going to be participating in ASOIAF rarepair week, from March 15-21. So this particular story might not update on 3/20/2020, but after that it should be back to regular programming.
> 
> To anyone feeling the effects of the coronavirus, whether it is in your area or the area of someone you love, please do what you can to stay healthy, both physically and mentally, whatever that ends up being. Stress can make you susceptible to getting sick. Best wishes to everyone, however you end up coping with this.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been supporting this story with your readership, comments, kudos, etc. See you all next time.


	35. Robert V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert watches a series of unfortunate events unfold at the Twins.

“I was not told my correspondence would be searched.” Robert had finished writing his letters in the chambers he shared with Roose. His uncle had skimmed the one to Grandfather, scribbled out his name on the bottom, and rushed out the door so quickly the candlelight had near on sputtered out, and set Robert’s head back to throbbing. It had been clear that there would be no talking with Roose this night. With haste Robert had made his way out the corridor and back down the tower to the heart of the keep. _Go out into Lord Forrest’s courtyard, stop at the Princess Rhaenyra fountain, look up and to the right, and there is Maester Brennet’s turret. _So Ser Aenys had told him as the older man had loosed him from his bonds.

“I am telling you now,” said Lothar, cross-eyed, as his pointy beard brushed the parchment. Lothar’s jowls jiggled in time with his dark curls as heavy noisy breaths escaped his sneering mouth. Then the fat Frey turned to the even fatter maester, bald and stinking of raven shit. “Brennet. This is good to seal.” Robert could have sworn he saw grease prints stain the scroll while Maester Brennet stamped the twin towers of the crossing into dark blue wax. He hadn’t eaten anything since the feast the night before, and in that moment he was glad of it.

_I am still a prisoner. I should have expected this. _Robert’s lip began to curl when a smirk grow on Lothar’s face, eyes darting back and forth as he read the second letter. _Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, Frey. _

“This one too, Brennet.” Robert curtly thanked the pair and stormed down the stairs.

The rest of the afternoon was a dull affair. After a team of pages had brought up their baths and took the soiled water away, Ser Aenys had knocked on their chamber door and informed them that they had freedom of the castle and could dine with Lord Bolton, Lady Walda, and Lady Jonelle, if they so chose.

“Or you may take your meal here. Either way, two guards will accompany you at all times. One each, until you bend the knee.” Robert chose to leave the room, following Ser Aenys. Roose stayed inside.

It was not long to Lord Bolton’s chambers. They were just one floor above. When they reached the door and were granted entrance, the Frey guard tried to follow Robert inside, but the Dreadfort men made to stop him. Ser Aenys diffused the situation and bid his man remain without. He did not bother entering and took his leave of Robert.

“You know the way back down.” Robert did.

The Freys had outfitted Lord Bolton with a solar and a small hall for his use, but Robert could tell that the suite was not extensive besides. The hall had one dirty window only, and little light streamed in so late in the evening. The rain smacked against the window pane, as if the glass were under assault from a mob of tiny people throwing even tinier gravel stones. The brightest adornment on the dark walls was the Bolton banner behind Lord Bolton’s head; elsewise the Freys had hung up faded tapestries depicting life around the Trident, dulled further by uninspired faces and uneven stitchwork. If so honored a guest as Lord Bolton could have such petty accommodations, then all the larger apartments must have been in use by the Frey family. _I thought the Rillseat was a crowded keep, but nothing could compare to this._

“Young Robert. Good evening,” said Lord Bolton. “Young Roose has not joined us.”

“No, my lord,” Robert confirmed. “Lady Walda. Lady Jonelle. Good evening, my ladies.” The two women at the table mumbled out greetings and Robert sat, leaving the empty setting for Roose between himself and Lord Bolton at the table’s head, across from Lady Jonelle. Servants stepped forward to lay out a spread of hard black bread, thick leek soup, and roast goose served with vinegar and mustard paste. Lord Bolton nodded and the four of them tucked into the meal. As he ate Robert could hear Lady Jonelle loudly slurp the soup down, and he even saw a slice of leek drop down into her lap. Once, she met Robert’s eyes, but on the whole, she kept her attention on her food. Lady Walda was the only one to take a second helping of soup, but she was done with it before any of the rest of them had finished their first. Her pudgy hands were strong for a woman’s, for she had no trouble tearing apart the stone hard crust and sponging up the dregs from her bowl until it was clean. _It must be the Crakehall in her._

The second course passed as silently as the first, and there was no dessert. Lord Bolton finished his meal before Robert did, dabbing deftly at his unstained mouth with a crisply creased white napkin. He was as neat an eater as Dom was, it seemed. Soon after, Robert pushed his plate forward, unable to stomach any more goose. Lady Walda and Lady Jonelle kept eating, but Lord Bolton deigned to speak.

“Your showing in the hall today was most unexpected,” he said. “I had every confidence that House Ryswell would bend the knee.”

Robert paused before speaking. _He saw. He saw Roose’s face. There are no secrets from him._ “My uncle and I were not in agreement. It would not have done well to divide our house for all to see.”

“No. It would not.” If Robert focused on the sounds of the ladies eating, Lord Bolton’s quiet was not so unsettling anymore. “I trust you have a notion of what Lord Rodrik’s answer will be.”

“I have,” Robert said. “I have every confidence that we will bend the knee. And House Dustin too.”

Lord Bolton nodded. “Yes. Quite.” He straightened his knife and fork next to his plate. “Which reminds me. We have received word from Ser Ronnel and Ser Kyle. They had no casualties at the ford. Clegane has retreated to Harrenhal, it appears, with Ser Wendel and many of his men in tow. I have called them back. Ser Ronnel and Ser Kyle. We should be expect them within a fortnight, if the rains are bad. A week if the rains are light.” The rains were not like to be light.

“That is good news, my lord.” For that he was glad. _Near the turn of the year or shortly after. Ronnel and Dom both. They’ll come back, and then we’ll all go home._

“Indeed.” Then Lord Bolton changed the subject. “On the morrow we will all attend another wedding,” he stated. “Arya Stark and Elmar Frey are to be married in the sept.”

Robert frowned. The girl had seen two-and-ten name days, if that. And could Elmar even…He did not want to think about it. “The princess has already bled?”

“It matters not. There will be no consummation for some years yet.” Something gleamed in Lord Bolton’s eye. “Children younger than our Lady of Winterfell have been married. There is precedent. Just this year Ermesande Hayford was wed to Tyrek Lannister, and she is a babe of two name days.” _The Lady of Winterfell, not the princess. That’s right._

“Aye, my lord.” Robert didn’t know what to say to the idea of a baby being married, so he said nothing. Lady Walda and Lady Jonelle were both scarfing down the last leavings of the goose. It was not long before he was dismissed. He was relieved to leave Lord Bolton’s chambers, but as he approached his own his heart filled with melancholy. _Roose ought to hear this, but he will not want to listen to me._ When Roose’s guard opened the door for him and his own shut it behind him, Robert opened his mouth to tell his uncle the news, but Roose was already asleep in the other bed, facing away.

“G’night,” Robert said to the air, after he’d finished preparing for sleep. He tucked into the furs, closed his eyes, and listened to the rain.

***

Robert could only wear his second-best clothes to the wedding in the morning, for his best stank of sweat and were soiled with rushes and dirt from the gallery floor. Roose’s were worse, for his were torn and caked with blood and mud. They both wore their bronze doublets with the running horses and the flaming eyes. Grandfather had one, and Father and Uncle Rick too. Grandmother had even made one for Dom before she’d passed, before the war. _We look a united front, but we are nothing of the sort. _Robert prepared himself for a wedding worse than the last.

When Ser Aenys escorted them to the sept, Robert was surprised to see Pat and the Greatjon sitting in chairs bethind the back pew, Frey men ready at attention about them. They’d rid Pat of his chains, but the Greatjon kept his gag, and his hands and feet were bound. _At least he’s not chained to a chair anymore. _Pat met Robert’s eyes for a moment before scowling and turning away. The Greatjon made a muffled noise that sounded like a spit. Robert and Roose had already sat down behind Lord Bolton and Lady Walda and Lady Jonelle, but it was so quiet that Robert could hear Pat’s indignant whisper about spitting in a sept.

Over Lord Bolton’s shoulder Robert could see Elmar. His groom’s cloak was the two towers of Frey over the counter-charged purple and pale mounts knights of Farring, swords in hand. _Twins over twins. _Robert could have laughed at the image but poor Elmar did not need that. His lank brown hair was oiled slick back over his head, and he kept on wringing his hands together, wildly tapping his left foot like a beaver’s tail. _He is a boy, _Robert thought. _He is still so small._ _Elmar is too young to be wed. _The boy’s eyes kept darting back and forth between the pews and the dirty statue of the Father. Robert gave Elmar the most encouraging face he could, and the boy seemed to calm for a moment, but it was only a moment before he descended into nerves again.

They sat in silence, waiting, for the bride to arrive. And the Frey septon too. Robert wasn’t as educated on the Faith of the Seven as Dom was, but he knew that he septon should have been here by now. He had been for Lord Bolton’s wedding. And Ser Edmure’s.

Then there was commotion outside the sept doors, and the hard and urgent voice was the septon’s, and it sounded like Lothar’s too. Robert could clearly hear the words “_outrage_”, _“guest right_”, “_sixth tenet_”, _“invalid by rule of forced consent”_, and _“fourth tenet_” but the rest was garbled. _This septon does not sound so stuffy now_. The tirade grew louder.

_“_None would know _today _that this house produced a light like_ Septon Luceon – ” _but the voice was cut off by a crack of fist on flesh, audible even through the door.

“Grover! Enough.” That was Lothar. The doors swung open, and Septon Grover strode forward, his grey hair mussed and stained by a sticky trickle of congealed blood down the back. His steps were long and swift and even, and he held his head high and his back as straight as a sentinel pine, his robes swishing around him. When he reached the space between the altars of the Father and the Mother, Robert saw that he was sporting a black eye that had swollen closed. The other eye gleamed stern and green. Veins protruded from the white-knuckled hand clutching his worn leather copy of the Seven-Pointed Star.

It was not long before the rest of the Freys filed in, at their head Lord Walder, pushed along in his squeaky chair by a dumpy son. Robert could pick out Lothar, and Ser Aenys, and Ser Merrett and Ser Hosteen and Ser Arwood, but after that his memory failed him. Once all the Freys had filled the pews on the Father’s side, the bride walked in.

Ser Edmure had an arm wound through hers, and was clutching her tiny hand in his opposite one. Arya Stark’s lip was quivering and tears were pricking out her eyes, but the deep creases between her brows and the petulant set of her mouth spelled rage and humiliation, not sadness or joy.

Septon Grover gave a sneer at the Freys and opened the Seven-Pointed Star. _There is no choir_, Robert noted. _No singing. _When the septon opened his mouth to begin the marriage rite, the words flew out, like thousands of birds, each chasing the last. He was clearly rushing. The only words he spoke at a normal speed was the selection from Hugor of the Hill about the duties of the office of marriage for man and wife. Then he was rushing again, until it was time to speak the vows.

“Do you so vow, with a clean soul, a free will, a sound mind, and a pure heart?” The words came out loud and slow, and a vein twitched in the septon’s head, his nostrils flaring like a bull’s. He hurried the boy and the girl through their speaking bits, through the changing of cloaks, the kiss, and the binding of hands. Then the wedding was done, but instead of leaving with her groom, the bride went with the man who had given her away. A Frey girl in a purple gown went up to Elmar and held his hand, and they left too.

At least there was no wedding feast. But Robert had been right to be prepared. _This wedding was worse._

***

The fortnight until the turn of the year passed with too little haste for Robert’s liking. Every morning he would rise, see to his grooming, and walk to the tower window, sliding a finger down the foggy pane to make a tally mark in the grime.

On the fifth night, they received a bird from Grandfather, and on the sixth day, Robert and Roose bent the knee.

“That fat fucker Lothar’s been reading our letters” was the first thing Roose said to him since the end of the day they’d woken up prisoners.

_I could have told you that, _Robert thought, but that would have been rude, and he did not want to set back the small progress he had made. “Aye” was all he said in reply. Roose nodded. It was something.

The rain did not let up. _A mob of tiny people, throwing stones at the Twins, throwing stones at what was done here. _Either that, or the gods were weeping over it all. The Young Wolf, his lady mother, his poor sister, his guard. It was all so wretched. At least Dom and Ronnel were coming back. _The rain will delay them, but they will come back_. Dom might wax poetic and say that the Boltons brought their Weeping Water wherever they went. Dom wouldn’t weep over this, not himself. He’d lock himself away and brood over what had happened here, all cold rage and gnashing teeth beneath a soft smile. _Another reason to curse the Bolton name, and his father. _Dom did not need more of that.

But Ronnel would find something to make them all laugh, and then Robert could laugh again too.

He made more tally marks in the grimy window pane.

***

On the seventh morning, a Dreadfort man knocked on Robert and Roose’s door, to deliver his lord’s summons. They followed him upstairs, and Lord Bolton received them into his solar. There was a bowl of freshly peeled grapes on his desk, and he stood next to the hearth, drying out a damp scroll.

Lord Bolton’s head turned slowly when Robert and Roose entered, slow and even like an owl’s. He bid them both sit, and he did the same, after pinning the letter through the poker hanging far above the flames and offering them grapes.

“There was a bird from the capital,” he said, his face still but his eyes frowning. “There has been a delay in Domeric’s travels. In the interest of the _weather _their caravan has stopped at Harrenhal. They have not crossed the ford.” Robert blinked.

“He has been travelling from Duskendale?” Roose frowned at Robert as if to question his boldness.

“From Maidenpool, I was told. Tarly holds Harrion Karstark there as well.”

“So they shall arrive in a fortnight or so.”

“So Lord Tywin says.” Lord Bolton paused. “Whether Lord Harrion will accompany him will depend on old Arnolf’s intent to pay.”

Robert was weighing whether it would be stupid to say something about how it might be good for Lord Bolton to use his newfound wealth to buy a friend but Roose cut in, brusque and short.

“Is that all, my lord?”

“There is no further news.”

“Then I would thank my lord for sharing these tidings, and beg his leave to retire.” Roose’s lip twitched. “We will share this with our family.”

“Of course,” Lord Bolton said. “You have no need of my leave, goodbrother. Go and be well.” Roose stood up and left, but Robert was still working at his grapes. “Young Robert. You have no further questions?”

Lord Bolton had caught him chewing, and Robert took his time to swallow. He tracked Lord Bolton’s eyes. They weren’t exactly the same as Dom’s. Just the color. Not the shape. _Don’t look away. Don’t._ “There is much to think on, my lord.”

“And what are your thoughts?”

“That I do not have any further questions. For now.”

***

On the eighth day the Northerners and rivermen who persisted in rebellion against the crown were executed. Lord Walder passed the sentence from his judgment seat indoors, but he was too old and infirm to be brought outside, let alone swing the sword. _There would have been no shame in it if Ser Ryman had done the deed, but here we are, standing before the gallows and watching the hangman do his work. _

For all that he was an Andal, even Lord Jason personally executed criminals if they were of noble or gentle birth. _It was raining that day too, the day Lord Jason slew the pirate Dagon Stonetree. _But most of the executions he’d seen with Lord Jason were of common criminals, and in the Riverlands, they used hangmen for common criminals. _These are men of gentle birth and distant cousins of noble houses. They deserve much better_. _Even in the Riverlands._

At least the Freys had the propriety to provide a septa for the men about to die. “So the Stranger can take them to the Father’s judgment seat with a clean soul,” Lord Jason had explained to him. “Every execution needs a septa here in the south. Without her, it’s not the Father’s justice. It’s almost murder.” Robert had understood. “It’s like how in the North we execute men under the heart tree. If we can.”

The Freys had no heart tree, but they had their septa. The Mormont and Glover and Umber men had already hanged, and they had all declined to speak with her, as had been expected. The few rivermen who had not knelt made their confessions, quick and terse, and they hanged one by one. Last of all came the Hound.

“Sandor Clegane!” shouted the herald, barely audible over the wailing of the wind and the roar of the raindrops. “For the dereliction of your duty as a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, for the crime of desertion of your post at the Battle of the Blackwater, and for the crime of rebellion against the Crown, in the name of Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, I, Walder Frey, Lord of the Crossing, do sentence you to die.”

The hangman would need to mount a block or a chair himself to place the noose around the Hound’s neck. As he drew his cloak around himself, Robert saw the hangman’s head turn towards the gibbet while the Hound knelt on the solid stretch of planks by the end of the gallows, whispering in the Frey septa’s ear while they clasped each other’s hands.

“What is _taking_ him so long?” complained a Frey standing behind Robert.

“He’s the _Hound. _Many sins to strip away, that one has,” offered another.

“Come off it. He’s delaying, and wants to spend the last moments of his life with a fine-looking woman.” Robert could hear the Frey give a clacking laugh that devolved into toothy chatters. “Aenys should hurry this along. He spends any longer with Septa Axelline and we’ll all die of chill before he hangs.”

For all that Robert wanted to get dry and warm again he couldn’t begrudge Clegane his time. _Would I do any different? _Mayhaps not. _I’d offend the gods to stave off death, but at its door, I’d pray. _What a spineless cur he was. _And mayhaps I’d cling to life in a woman’s hands, even if she were a septa. _He knew not what was in the Hound’s heart. It mattered not to Robert whether the Hound wanted to clean his soul, or just to stare into Septa Axelline’s fresh face. The whipping wind had pushed back her septa’s veil, her Riverlands red hair bright and dripping, and her rain-soaked robes clung to her form. _Let him have the time he needs. The Freys can suffer if they must._

Then, at last, the Hound bowed his head, and the septa nodded to him, and she made the sign of the star on his dripping brow. Their lips moved in prayer, and they both rose to their full height. As the Hound strode towards the gibbet, a flash of lightning split the sky, throwing his ruined face into sharp relief. The bolt struck the gibbet, setting it to burn, and the rope too, but the rain returned, and left the gibbet and the rope charred and black and unusable. _The gods do not want this man to hang._

The wind picked up, whistling and wailing. “I lived by the sword. I’ll die by the sword.” It was the Hound, barking, standing proud, his raspy voice just audible over the wind. “I die today a sinless man. Come, hangman. Kill me. Send me to the Stranger.” Then he knelt, and the hangman sliced off his head, and set his life’s blood flowing.

***

On the twelfth evening, Ronnel and Ser Kyle returned with their company six hundred strong, and on the thirteenth morning, Ronnel bent the knee. There’d been a bird from Aunt Barbrey giving him leave to do so in her name. Ronnel received chambers on the same floor as Robert and Roose’s, and Robert helped him wring his things out, speaking in hushed tones the whole while.

“I wish we’d stayed behind with you. Instead of Ser Kyle. That we’d stayed at the ford. Me and Roose. Then we wouldn’t have _seen_, this, this _row_ he’s kept on wouldn’t have happened.”

Ronnel clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, lad. Roose will come ‘round. I’ll talk to him. You’ll see.” He hoped Ronnel would be right. Soon after, Robert returned to his own chambers, and changed his clothes for what would be the third wedding he attended since the turn of the moon.

He walked behind Ronnel, with Roose behind, Lord Bolton and Lady Walda further ahead, and they met the rest of the procession at the stables. The Cerwyn men and barrowknights and what little mounted men were left had little time to rest, for they were riding out of the castle to the nearest heart tree. They were riding North.

_Home_, Robert thought, as they made their way up the Kingsroad, towards one of the last copses of trees before the green marshes of the Neck began. But they weren’t riding home, not yet. _After this is done, we’re turning back around. Two hours tramping through the mud, two hours down again, and then another wedding feast. _

When their party dismounted, Lord Bolton, Ser Kyle, Lady Jonelle and one Ser Eorl Wells stood before the tree. Its face was droopy and sad, and the sap leaked out of its eyes like rheumy tears. _This is an old tree. An old god amongst the old gods. _He had not spoken the entire ride, but he quieted his breathing, because the gods were watching.

Lord Bolton said the words, and Ser Kyle gave the bride away, but Ser Eorl Wells received a Cerwyn cloak. He pulled it tight around his doublet, hiding his green and white lozengy sleeves, his flaxen hair dripping. The kiss was brief and uninspired, and Robert noticed that the groom was much prettier than the bride. Ten years younger too. _They called him Ladyface at Harrenhal, and laughed behind his back. But he’s the one who’s laughing now, the new Lord Protector Cerwyn. _

Robert was not glad to return to the Twins, but at least there would be a feast and a fire. Lord Bolton played host, in the small hall the Freys had given him. The room was cramped, though their party was small, for a wedding feast. This was a gathering for Northerners, and there were no Freys to be seen. There were two more trestle tables stuffed inside, for Lady Jonelle’s knights, and the servants had moved the highest chairs from the ends of the table to the middle of the one along the window. Lord Bolton must have sent a man ahead, for when they arrived, the spread was already set out. _Goose again._ But at least there was trout too. And pie.

There was no music and no dancing, but the hearth was warm, and the muted conversation did not drown it out its merry crackle. The feasters seemed subdued and bored. _Perhaps that’s for the best. _He did not think he could stomach another wedding with much excitement. _Not until I get home_. He smiled into his wine. Then Ronnel tapped him on the shoulder and took his leave, tired after the day’s ride so soon after a march. Greycliff followed him out, visibly relieved. _The Karhold men are not at home among us, the southerners of the North. _Barrowton and the Rillseat, Castle Cerwyn and Torrhen’s Square – they were as far away from the Bay of Seals as Lannisport from Riverrun. Or farther.

After Ronnel and Karl Greycliff left, Lady Jonelle and her groom left for bed. Ser Kyle and the Cerwyn men followed, and then it was just Robert and Roose and the Boltons. Roose was still heaping pie onto his plate, and Lady Walda was popping in berry tarts. Robert was eyeing a tart himself, turning over whether to partake, or to let Walda have them all. But a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

It was Lothar, cloak dripping with rain, with a bedraggled raven perched on his arm. The bird had the most stuffed scroll that it could possibly carry tied to its leg.

“My lord. This is for you.” Lord Bolton rose from his seat and broke the seal. _Crimson wax, tied with Lannister gold. _Robert watched his ghost grey eyes flick back and forth as he read, his jaw clenching tighter as he turned the pages. When he was done he folded the parchments together, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Lothar.” His gaze flicked to Walda. “My lady wife. I would ask you to follow your uncle. Please send for Maester Brennet, and let him know I would be leeched this night.” Walda squeaked, and Lord Bolton must have known it was in protest. “Fret not, my lady. The tarts will remain.” She licked her fingers clean, wiped them down, and the Freys walked out the door. Lord Bolton barred it shut after them, and scanned the parchments again.

“Read this,” he said, slightly louder than his wont, handing the parchments to Robert. Roose came to stand behind his shoulder.

_Lord Bolton,_

_I write to give you another update on the status of your son’s return. It is with the greatest shame that I report that he has escaped into the Riverlands. The time of his escape was determined to be a point before Randyll Tarly’s taking of Maidenpool. _

_Enclosed you shall find accounts from Lord Tarly, Ser Gregor Clegane from Harrenhal, and Ser Tanton Fossoway from the camps outside Tumbleton detailing the chains of custody of each hostage taken from Duskendale. You will notice my annotations on the Fossoway and Tarly reports. Statements from Lord Ambrose and Lord Leygood are forthcoming._

_In compensation for this blunder House Lannister pledges you a sum of five hundred gold dragons, to be sailed from Lannisport to Barrowton once favorable conditions in the Sunset Sea obtain. We assure you that the Crown will take all efforts to secure his person and return. The Crown guarantees to cover all costs for this operation._

_We will continue to send you updates on our other investigation._

_In the name of Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King, and Joffrey Baratheon, First of his Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, House Lannister and the Iron Throne remain steadfastly grateful to you and House Bolton for your support._

_By my hand,_

_Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin_

Robert turned the page to the Tarly report but never got to read it, because Roose seized it from his hands, rose, and waved it in Lord Bolton’s face.

“What the _fuck_ is this?” Roose barked. _“What the fuck is this?_ You – you _traitor._ Blasphemer. _Kingslayer! _You slimy, grasping _cur! _You do what you did and you didn’t even _know _that they didn’t have your son? That they didn’t have Domeric? How stupid could you be? They sent no guarantees –”

But Lord Bolton interrupted Roose, and it was astonishing how he could remain so calm. Robert had never seen Roose so angry before_. _“I had a guarantee. Not a moon after the battle Lord Tywin sent me a letter. ‘Your son is safe,’ it said. ‘Read it by his own hand’. There it was.”

“And you believed them? Gods be good, you are _stupid. _The smartest man in the North, my _arse! _They get you to break_ guest right_ and you don’t think they’d sink so low as to _lie to you_?” A drop of angry spittle had landed on Lord Bolton’s face, and he calmly cleaned himself with a napkin. “You know what you did? You killed him. _You _killed Domeric. You haven’t been out there, but I have. Between Maidenpool and Duskendale? One rider alone, with no party to return to at night? No safe havens? He’s dead. _You killed him. _It’s all lies! They never had him, he died at the battle, and they just lied so you would do it. You’re _vile – ”_

None of that was fair. Even Roose thought that Dom would be safe. _Dom sent a letter, Lord Bolton wouldn’t lie about that, and Dom wanted to go. _“Roose – ”

“Shut up, Robert. You stay with _him_.” Roose crushed the parchments with his fist and jerked aside the bar on the door. “Let’s see how you hold the North when my father finds out you killed his favorite grandchild.” When the door slammed the wine shook in Robert’s cup, and he thought he heard Roose mutter about having to share his name.

Robert and Lord Bolton sat alone for a few tense moments. Then Lord Bolton took a breath in, let it out, and sipped from Walda’s abandoned wine. “Nephew,” he said. “What are your thoughts on this?”

“I – ” Robert started. He thought back on everything he’d heard, from the investigations with the Cerwyn men to the reports he’d made to that day he found Ser Kyle, the day the sun sank pink and red. “He’s not dead,” he said. “Dom can’t be dead.”

Lord Bolton’s jaw clenched, and his lip twitched, and then he downed Walda’s cup. “So we must hope,” he said. “But he can.” He took the decanter and filled the cup once more. After a longer sip he bared his teeth and started speaking. “Do you think, Robert, that what was done here was a mere ransom?”

The answer was obvious from the question. “No, my lord.” _He knew, he knew the day I told him about the battle. _

“No indeed.” The Lord of the Dreadfort took another sip, and the inner edges of his teeth turned red. “I will tell you, Robert, because you saw. What happened to you that night? What happened to your uncle?”

“We were captured. We were hurt but we were captured.” He understood more now. “Dom was supposed to be captured.”

“Yes. It would not do for the lords of the North to think he had any part in this. Or the two of you.” Lord Bolton swirled the wine but did not drink this time. “Your uncle was right. I have been foolish. I trusted that Tywin Lannister would deliver on his promises, but it seems that incompetence abounds. They said Clegane would take him, but the Fossoways were sent instead. Clegane he would have surrendered to, but the Fossoways, he _fought. _Ser Ryam, it was. He could tell us what happened, were he still alive. I wonder how that order was botched. But it matters not. Tywin Lannister has botched everything about this. He has left me in the lurch. And now he has his dwarf write to me, instead of owning this himself. He has done me great disrespect, the fool.”

Lord Bolton took another sip, and Robert felt that he was not being spoken to anymore. “First they cannot return my son because they have to deal with the Stark girl. Then Domeric was with the Fossoways, and the Fossoways had to go deal with the hill tribes from the Vale. Now they are gathering reports from the Reachmen. Incompetence, I say. The same as treachery.”

“My lord, he won. Against Ser Ryam. That’s what they all said. The Cerwyn men.”

“Yes. That’s what they said. The Cerwyn men.” Then Lord Bolton smiled at Robert, and it was more terrible than his stare. “He lied to me at the outset, like he lied about Sansa Stark. Did Tywin think I could not put two and two together? He dithered and delayed and stressed the importance of finding facts, but I say it was the Tyrells. Why else would there be Moon Brothers in the Reach? I half expect her to show up in Highgarden or at the Arbor before winter comes, while I give Barbrey the other one to raise. Now they have her, and they have lost him. Tywin offered me Desmera Redwyne or Myrielle Lannister in her place, but how will Desmera Redwyne or Myrielle Lannister help us hold the North?”

“Us,” Robert echoed_. Sansa Stark? _There was too much to process. But one thing he knew. “House Ryswell had no part in this. My grandfather –”

“No. Lord Rodrik did not know. Not about what happened here. But I told him about Sansa Stark. He told me to do what I had to do.” Lord Bolton rolled a grape with his fork. “You know that even now the Dustins and the Stouts are sieging Torrhen’s Square, and my bastard and your father the Moat. The Ironborn will be gone before we get there. What happened here, you were not supposed to know. No one was supposed to know. The other girl was not supposed to show up. Catelyn Tully was not supposed to die. It was all to be very clean. And when my son returned in chains, with Sansa Stark behind him in a locked wheelhouse, it was all supposed to be _secure_. _Ironclad._”

“Not a ransom, but a reward.”

“Yes. For him, and for me. I know how he coveted her.” _That is not what he would have wanted. He wanted her to love him._

“And now you get nothing.”

Lord Bolton’s pale eyes were shining. “Yes,” he said. “Nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I should write my authors notes right after I finish editing these chapters. I had a lot to say when I was finished but now I can't remember. Coronavirus has been taking up more and more of my mental headspace lately. Since mid January. (I wanted to cancel my vacation but that didn't end up happening.) IRL me has a large doomer streak. 
> 
> I have strong prepper impulses that members of my household talk have rationally talked me out of in the past and now I am feeling upset that no one listened to me. I wanted to buy N95s 2 months ago and we didn't get them. I moved to where my husband's family is, and most of mine is in the corona riddled Northeast US. My brother isn't going to have a high school senior spring. My last grandparent and my parents and many of my aunts and uncles have preexisting conditions and I am genuinely afraid that I won't see some of them face to face ever again. I'm afraid I won't get to go to their funerals. My job can be totally teleworked but my employer is doing nothing of value at the moment. Maybe I am just catastrophizing, I guess it makes it easier for me to get into the head of Domeric the doomer (lol but not lol). 
> 
> All I have to say is just tell your family that you love them. Call your grandparents as often as you can (better yet facetime or skype them) and beg them not to go outside. If you are young and live near any elderly relatives or neighbors get their groceries for them. 
> 
> See you all next time. Memento mori.


	36. Domeric XX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter contains sexual content. If such content will make you want to cut out your eye please CTRL+F to "I love you" and start reading there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The colour of love and the semblance of pity  
no woman's face has more miraculously  
shown, from often seeing  
gentle eyes or grievous weeping,  
than yours, when before you  
you can see my sorrowing mouth:  
such thoughts come to my mind through you,  
I cannot hold my heart firm in its distress.  
I cannot keep my wasted eyes  
from gazing at you continually  
because of their desire for weeping:  
and their will increases seeing you,  
so that they are all consumed by that wish:  
but in your presence they cannot shed tears.
> 
> \- Dante Alighieri, "The colour of love and the semblance of pity", La Vita Nuova

“My lady wife. Good morning. I would like to take my rights with you again.”

She had heard him, he knew. Her lips were tugging upward in a smile, and her eyes were crinkled up at the edges even though they were closed. Her breathing was different, too, overly measured and deliberately even. _She feigns sleep to tease me, she knows that it will work. _

She seemed to delight in torturing him. _Where did she learn that? _He ignored the thought, skimmed his hands over her ribs, and began to tickle her. She tensed, awake, the smile straining at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were still screwed shut, but he could hear her swallowing her glee. Then his fingers moved over the smooth skin of her flat white belly and she could hold back no more. Her eyes flew open, shining with mirthful tears, and she burst into peals of laughter.

“There’s a girl,” he said. He’d been wrong before. _This is the best sound in the world. Sansa’s laughter. And the best sight in the world is her smile. _He couldn’t help but kiss her.

“Good morning, my lord. My lord husband.” She was still smiling when their kiss was done. “I will do my duty.” Somehow her smile grew brighter, bright enough to see by. The candles and the hearth had long gone out, and the sun had not yet risen, but he could see her in the dark. Her teeth were white, and her skin was white, and all that was white seemed to glow. In the light of the setting moon the rest of the room took on cold tones of grey and blue. It was the hour of the wolf_._

He started to chuckle himself after he lifted her upward and took a breast in his mouth. After a few swirls of his tongue and a nip of his teeth he had to pull his face away and bite down a groan. Sansa had started tracing circles just where he liked, and then he felt the wet grip of her palm, drifting up, not too tight, just slow enough. She had learned him so quickly. _Gods be good, I love this girl._

_“_Fuck – ” he muttered. “That’s enough now.” But he shouldn’t have said that. “Sorry.”

She giggled again, and her eyes were so blue. “Will it be different again this time?”

“Aye, if you like.” He twisted around and started stacking pillows against the headboard, three deep, four deep, five, and then he leaned back. “Come here. Kneel over me. Like that.” It was easy to guide himself in. _Gods be good._ “Lean forward. There. Up and down. Very good.” _So sweet, and just for me._ Domeric kissed the meeting of her neck and shoulder, and sucked down deep to leave a mark that would last. Pink and red. _Let them _see, he thought. _I don’t care, let them see._ He took his hands away from her waist and tangled them in her long hair, drawing a fistful of locks to his nose and mouth as she began to bounce. He took a deep breath inward. Lavender oil and lye soap and the faintest hint of lemon_._ _So lovely. _He loved the way she smelled.

_Gods be good, I love this girl._

Sansa wasn’t smiling anymore. She was biting down hard on her lower lip, her brows knitting together in concentration. She was not used to such exertion; it was clear from the sheen of sweat building on her forehead, her neck. And her breasts. Her breasts were so lovely, gods be good. But if he stared too long and watched how they bounced, he would miss the movings of her face. And by no means did he want to miss her face.

“Here,” he said. He grabbed her hips while he was sheathed to the hilt and began to twist her in a circle. “Good?” He stared into her face. Her eyes widened and she parted her lips, only to bite down once more. She nodded, once, first, and slowly, then again and again and again, quickly and with vigor._ Now, do it now. _He glanced at the thatch of hair between her legs – red – and then he met his mark – pink – and he traced the pad of his thumb in a small circle, slowly, first, then faster. Sansa’s mouth remained closed, but she began to hum in notes high and clear and long. When he felt her peak he caught her in a kiss and held her against himself, stilling until she was done. Then he lifted her off himself, laid her down on her back, hiked her legs over his shoulders, and fell into her until he was done too.

“I love you,” he said, when he’d rolled off, wrapped them both in the furs, and entwined their fingers and legs together.

“And I love you.” By the gods, he loved her smile. _I can do anything so long as she smiles at me like that._

It was the second time he’d had her since he’d realized what he’d done, what he’d said. In the dark of the night his eyes had flown open in shock and disappointment. He’d taken a long, deep breath and blew it back out, and then he’d counted out nine more. _Drunk as a dog, I was, _he thought, as he stepped over to the corner of the room and took a long piss_. What a fool I am. It was not supposed to be this way. She deserved much more than a drunken tumble. _And he’d known there would be consequences. They would matter, but they did not have to matter _now_. In for a half-groat, in for a stag. _I have made my bed and now I must lie in it. And if I must lie in it, I might as well enjoy myself. _So he’d kissed his bride awake, made his wishes known, gave her satisfaction, and had her from behind.

They’d talked, then, for an hour or two, before falling asleep. There was so much that he’d missed of her since he’d brought her to Runestone. Whenever they played Cyvasse he’d been Jonnel and had to focus on the board. And their time in the godswood had been wordless for the most part. _Why on earth did I stop talking to her_? It had been a foolish choice. Talking to her made him so _happy_. He loved to hear her laugh. He loved see her smile.

But what they would speak on now that morning had come would not make her smile.

He refused to say he regretted it, but he could never call it wise. With his wits about him it never would have happened, but he’d left his wits at the bottom of a cup. _You oughtn’t drink, it dulls the senses and the mind. _So his father had told him since he’d been a boy. _Aye, Father, I should have listened to you. _In the eyes of the gods they were man and wife, but in the eyes of men he had broken the law. It never should have happened, but there it was, and now he’d have to fix things.

Even with her lying over him, with a clear mind there was nothing to stop the dread from creeping into his chest. Bugger His Grace and Lady Catelyn for the moment. _What will my father do?_ When he found out… if Domeric let himself follow that thought, he’d never be able to turn away. So he pushed the thought away.

_Bronze Yohn first, and alone. He will be disappointed but we will sort it out. _Domeric would bring the bloody sheet, explain what happened, and they’d speak with Sansa too, after the shock had softened. He would need to make sure that they both had the same story; he knew how Bronze Yohn got when he wanted information. Then the marriage would be convalidated, and they’d write to His Grace and Lady Catelyn, one letter, both of their signatures, and then Sansa would move into his chambers. _And I’ll have her every night. _But then he’d have to deal with his father – 

His thought was broken by a warm wet drip onto his chest. His little wife had dozed off and was drooling in her sleep. That wouldn’t do. He squeezed her shoulder, firm enough to wake but gentle enough to spare her hurt. “Sansa,” he said. “Sansa, wake up.”

She blinked a few times and smiled. There it was again. Brighter and warmer than the summer sun, even in the dark. His dread died, and his heart swelled up from the inside, pouring out the sunshine he had taken in from his eyes, from his skin. By the gods, he felt like singing. _I shall sing for her today. I have not sung for her since we arrived here._

He felt so much hope with her smiling at him. _Everything is going to be all right. _The bards sang of the maids who bloomed in spring, but here was one who had budded in the autumn deep and blossomed on the cusp of winter cold. Everything about her was a promise. She had sweet round hips to bear his babes, and high, plump breasts to feed them. If he closed his eyes he could see her growing big with child. _There’s hope, _he thought. _There is death and there is dark, but light always survives. Life always wins. Even when the white winds blow and the ground freezes to stone. Even when the snows can bury giants. It might take years and years and years but the sun will always return. The light will always prevail._

_Gods be good, I love this girl. _He smiled at her too.

“Do you think we made a child together?” Domeric felt his brow furrow. _She has read my mind._ “My mother said that Robb was made on her wedding night. To my father.” She tipped up her face to look at him, but her chin was jutting into his chest, so he adjusted them both, sliding the hand that had been cupping her rump up her back and around to her belly, splaying his fingers out wide.

“Aye? Is that so.” Perhaps a child of theirs would look like her, if she was a girl. Lucky and kissed by fire and eyes just like blue stars. Or if he was a boy he perhaps would look like Roger, brown hair, brown eyes, and no trace of Bolton at all. And then more boys, and more girls, always laughing in the Dreadfort. Some might look like him, but he wanted one to look like Mother. “I suppose it’s possible.”

There was so much more he wanted to say, but he fell silent. It would not do for his voice to break. _I will read to him at night like Mother did for me. I’ll teach him to ride before he can walk and he will never know the kiss of the flaying knife. Little baby, if indeed you are there, know that your father will never hurt you. He loves your mother and he would never hurt you. _He kissed her brow and palmed the smooth skin under her navel, collecting himself. What a simpering fool he was. Domeric cleared his throat.

“We ought to rise,” he said, “and to prepare. For today.” He made to push off the furs but Sansa yanked them back and pressed closer.

“Prepare for what? We don’t need to be at the sept until noon.” _We won’t be going there at all._

“We must speak to Bronze Yohn. This morning. We must tell him what happened.” He slid out from under the furs but made sure the air did not hit Sansa’s skin. He slipped into his boots, made for the wardrobe, and pulled out a plain black dressing gown and a pair of doeskin slippers. When he returned he set the slippers on the floor, lay the dressing gown over Sansa’s form, and pried the furs out of her fingers. He pulled her up to sit over the edge of the bed. “What happened, Sansa?”

Her eyes went wide as he smoothed the dressing gown around her slim shoulders and tied the knot around her slimmer waist. _Her hair is all tangled and matted. _That wouldn’t do. He picked up the slippers and slid them onto her feet, so white, so soft, so smooth.

“You changed your mind,” she said as he helped her down onto the floor. He raised an eyebrow. “About marrying me. After dancing with me at the feast you changed your mind.”

He placed a hand on the small of her back and led her to the dressing table where he kept his grooming things. The silk of the dressing gown was cool on his hand, and it draped so nicely over her breasts, her hips. The sheen of the moonlight swished and swayed over her form as she moved.

“Aye. I changed my mind. I was smitten by your beauty and I changed my mind. I could wait no longer.” He pulled out the chair and bid her sit, and picked up his hairbrush and adjusted the Myrish glass so he could see her face as he worked. “Bronze Yohn will understand my meaning. Your brother too. They will not like it, but they will understand.” Between the bristles of his brush red mingled amidst the black. He liked the way that looked. Sansa nodded. “Your mother may think otherwise. When we write to her you must assure her that I did not force you.”

“You didn’t,” she protested, frowning. “It is what I wanted.”

“Then you must say that. That you asked me, and I relented.” He leaned close and breathed in. _Lavender and lye soap and just a hint of lemon. _“I will own this. And all the consequences. But they will be easier to bear so long as you say that. Will you do this for me?”

Sansa nodded at him again. Her hair was neat enough now. “Yes.” 

“After that, you should expect – ” she had turned around to look at him and not the mirror, and the dressing gown was gaping open, sliding off one shoulder. He reached forward and closed it, pulling the knot tight. “You have heard about Mychel and Cassandra’s brother Jon?”

“I have.” She frowned again. “But that isn’t the same. Ser Jon and Lady Ellyn weren’t married before.”

Domeric bit his tongue a moment before speaking. “It’s different with the Faith of the Seven. The septon needs to be there. There’s always at least one witness. With the heart tree, they can’t say that.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down. “Then… they will just think… what they were thinking anyhow.” There was a blush growing on her cheeks.

“Aye.” He tipped up her chin and placed his fingers on the corners of her mouth. “But Bronze Yohn did not think so. He has taken me at my word, and he will take me at my word again. We have the bloody sheet.” It wasn’t enough to make her smile, but he didn’t want her laughing yet. He drew his hand away and stepped back. “The convalidation will be short. It can just be Bronze Yohn and Septon Lucos if you wish. Then we will write to your brother and your mother.” Now the difficult part was coming, and he was the one to frown. He could feel the dread creep back in, the tightening, the cold. “Sansa. About my father. About my family. You should know. My father, when he hears of this. When your brother writes to him with terms. I fear – ”

But she rose and placed a hand on his face. “Speak not of this today. It is a happy morning. We can speak about your father when the time comes. Let’s be happy today.” Then she wound her hands around his neck and kissed him soundly. When she pulled back they were both smiling again.

“Aye. Let’s be happy today.” _I can do anything so long as she smiles at me like that. _“On to business, then.”

He helped her into her shift and cloak after dressing himself in the clothes from the night before. _They smell like her. _Her gown they left on his chair, for he was useless in helping her back into it, and besides, it would serve as further proof. The corridors were still clear when he walked her back to her chambers, the bloody sheet folded over his arm. His heart felt light as he held her hand.

She pulled him into another kiss before closing the door, smiling sweetly before pursing her lips. “Tonight… we will get to be together again?”

“Aye, of course.” If he did not let go of her hand now he’d delay another hour or two. “I will see you soon. Someone will fetch you.”

“I will be ready.” She smiled. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

He tightened his cloak around his shoulders as he made his way to Lord Yohn’s solar. _Even here, there is a chill. Snow today, not rain. _He started to whistle the tune to _Off to Gulltown, _but that did nothing to ward off the tight sensation in his chest. He turned up his collar and it was as if Sansa were with him again. _I can do it. I must._

He knocked on Bronze Yohn’s solar door. There were muffled voices within, and no guards without. After a few moments, he knocked again, and the voices softened, and as he waited, he whistled his mother’s old First Men song. _There is no need to be afraid. _Only after two verses and a chorus did Bronze Yohn open the door, bushy brows drawn together. Domeric held down a gulp, feeling dirty. _He frowns at me, he knows. Someone saw us together._

“Young Bolton,” he said. “Good. You are here. Right quick, Andar was.” The door to the small hall was closed, but there was a strip of light beneath. The solar was empty but for the two of them. “Sit down, boy.”

“My lord?”

“Domeric. Please sit down.” He obeyed, taking a chair in front of the desk, laying the bloody sheet out on the back of the other as Bronze Yohn turned around and fumbled for some parchments. The old Lord of Runestone opened his mouth and closed it again. His grey eyes spelled sadness as he searched for words.

“There was a bird in the night.” Bronze Yohn sounded far away, subdued, not like himself. The dread was back, the creeping cold, the pounding of the drum. _No. No. _“When you read this, know that you have friends here. We know you had no part.”

Then there was parchment in his hand, and he was reading the words.

_To the Septons and Septas of the Seven Kingdoms, and to the Noble Lords and Ladies and all folk they serve:_

_In these days the fog of war has darkened the eyes of even the most faithful, and the pious may debate whether actions taken in the name of kings were done by the sword of the Warrior and according to the Father’s justice. In this conflict, the Faith has preached mercy for all in the name of the Mother. In the name of the Smith it has built sanctuaries for the Maiden’s innocents. The dead it has buried and given over to the Stranger. To all it has offered up wisdom by the Crone who lights the Way._

_With such wisdom, in the name of the Seven-Who-Are-One, We, the Most Devout, together and in the voice of the High Septons who came before and who are to come, declare the event known as the ‘Red Wedding’ a crime that cries out to the gods for vengeance: _

_For the breaking of the Sixth Tenet of the Faith, by the murder of Robb Stark, ‘The King in the North,’ of Catelyn Tully Stark, his lady mother, of Ser Wendel Manderly, of Lucas Blackwood, and of countless other souls under the protection of sacred hospitality, the Most Devout declares House Frey anathema._

_For the breaking of the Fourth Tenet of the Faith, by the forced marriage of the child Arya Stark to the child Elmar Frey, and the mockery of the holy rite of marriage, and by the shedding of the blood of a godsworn septon, the Most Devout declares House Frey anathema. _

_To all pious members of House Frey, the Faith calls you forward to repudiate the crimes of your brethren. Come forward, and by the Mother’s mercy, become once more the children of the Light._

_The Council of the Most Devout declares seventy-seven days of prayer and fasting in reparation for these sins. We call upon all the faithful to participate and petition to the Seven-Who-Are-One for the repentance of House Frey, which has renounced its nobility by its ignoble deeds._

_The Council of the Most Devout calls upon all the faithful to pray for the conversion of House Bolton, that they might renounce their ill-gotten gains and the false title of Warden of the North._

_From the Sept of Baelor, Undersigned by the Council of the Most Devout_

“I cannot be married to her,” Domeric said. The parchment crumpled and fell to the floor.

“My boy,” came Bronze Yohn’s voice. “Do not be hasty. There are ways forward. It does not have to be how – ”

“My lord. Please excuse me. I require time to think on these tidings.” He rose and shut the door behind him. It would not do for Bronze Yohn to see him like this. His hands shook and he felt the breaths die before they reached his lungs. A ghost was in there, crushing him. _Breathe, count to ten._

In a blur he reached the stables. _My horse, my friend. You have never failed me, you will love me always. _He nuzzled Rhaegar’s nose and wove his fingers through his mane. _Tangles._ He picked up a brush. When he was done he still wasn’t right. _Just an hour. All I’ll need is an hour._

To the east there was the sea, so they left out the west gate, towards the foothills, away from the sun.

He rode like the wind. Each village and wayside shrine disappeared behind him in a wisp of rushing air and melting color. The cold tickled his nose, but he didn’t care. He had ridden this road countless times before.

_It’s me and my horse. It’s just me and my horse. Everything’s all right when it’s just me and my horse._

Ten-and-three wayside shrines to mark the miles, and then he turned off the road, to the wood at the base of the hills. Father, Warrior, Smith, Stranger, Maiden, Mother, Crone, Father, Warrior, Smith, Stranger, Maiden, _Mother_. Mychel’s lands, these were, under the watch of the Red Rune Tower, broken and dark. If he followed the stream’s larger fork, where it split under the Mother’s feet, there was a sept, a village, the tower. He stayed by the smaller fork, and followed it to where he needed to be.

_Nine weirwood stumps, and one living tree. _

“We’re here now, my friend. You can rest now.” He dismounted, and tied Rhaegar to a branch, with slack enough so he could drink. As he was petting his horse’s nose the ghost in his chest stole his breath again. “Rhaegar,” he said. “Why did I name you this?” _Mayhaps it was love when it started, but after Aerys killed Rickard and Brandon, how? She would not want to be his lady anymore. _The singers must have been right. After that it could only be rape.

If he detached himself from the situation he could almost admire the grand historical significance of what he had done. Six thousand years of bitter rivalry, centuries of quiet planning and sharpening knives. He’d wanted no part of it and yet in his foolishness he’d sealed the day. _In the histories they will name me one of them. O my father, are not you proud?_

But he couldn’t detach himself from the situation. He was in the Vale, they knew he had no part. _My reputation will save me. _Another clench of his heart. _I have no reputation anymore._

He needed to sit down. The stumps wouldn’t serve. _The old gods are Grandfather’s hand on my shoulder, the old gods are my mother’s love._ The roots didn’t bother him, so he nestled against the trunk of the tree. The autumn wind picked up, and with shaking hands he drew his cloak tighter around himself. The ghost’s grip squeezed his heart again, and closed his lungs. _Sansa, no, you can’t be here, no, Sansa, please, go away, go away. I don’t want you to see me. _He looked down and saw them. On his cloak. Three red hairs, shining bright. _No, no, no. _

It needed to come off. It smelled like her. He went back to his horse and fetched his saddle blanket, and swapped it for his cloak. _The one my mother made. It’s not warm enough. _So he grabbed the cloak again and began to rub it on his ill-named horse’s flank, and then he wrapped it around himself. Now the ghost was choking him, and he could still smell her. _Lavender and lye soap and just a hint of lemon._ He felt the god against his face and he closed his eyes. There she was, under him, over him, smiling at him, and it wasn’t the god against his face, it was her. _She’ll never smile at me again, not after she hears of this. _He needed to open his eyes, and when he did, he saw the god’s face, and the god was smiling.

They saw, they saw. Before the heart tree, _they saw. What have I done to her? It never should have happened. _Before the gods she was bound to him forever. _I have trapped her with me._ He wanted to keep her still, but would she want to stay? _Not after they killed her mother, no. If I have her every night, I’ll be raping her every night. _But he didn’t want it like that. He couldn’t do that. He needed her to smile. But she wouldn’t smile, she couldn’t. _I can’t keep her, not after Mother… _

There had to be another way.

“I’ve ruined her,” he realized. “Who could have her after me?” _No one, _he thought, but that wasn’t true, plenty of men took wives who weren’t maidens. He knew. _Perhaps it’s for the best. She’ll take her moon tea and wash out my vile Bolton seed. She’ll have her revenge and make herself a widow and marry Harry Hardyng or Roland Waynwood and he’ll bed her in a year. _He could see it. It made his blood boil. _No, no, no, I can’t let that happen, no. _“I’ll kill him.” And what if the baby looked like Mother? A little girl with long brown hair and big brown eyes and Sansa’s smile. _No, no, no, she can’t do it, no – _

But that was selfish of him, wasn’t it? “You said I had to be a good father, Mother. You said I had to be a good husband. For you, Mother.” But how could he be both? _She won’t want us anymore. She won’t love us anymore. _If the babe was born they’d all want to kill her, because her name was Bolton.

“Don’t hate, her, Sansa, please,” he whispered. “Don’t hate her like you’ll hate me.” He could take her away to Lys. They could fake his death and he could take his daughter to Lys, and Sansa could have her revenge. But he couldn’t do that. _Craven. A knight does not cower when there is a just war to fight. Where is your honor? _“It’s gone,” he said. “I drank it all down and pissed it all out. I threw it away.” But he could get it back, couldn’t he? War meant honor, war meant glory. _No it doesn’t. Haven’t you learned? _But it didn’t matter, the war was just.

“This was a crime against the gods, old and new.” _The gods cry out for vengeance, the gods cry out for blood. _“I might get to kill him, Mother.” _Cursed be the name of Bolton anyhow. _

It wouldn’t have to be a slaughter. The men of the Dreadfort loved their gods. _It was him, they will turn on him, I know it. With the might of Barrowton and the Rills behind me, they will need to turn on him. _But the ghost had a knife, and plunged it in, and _twisted._ _They knew, they had to, they knew. Why else would Catelyn Tully be dead? _His father had no hatred for her, and he would not kill a highborn lady. _A valuable hostage, or a bride for a Frey. _Lord Walder had no quarrel with Catelyn Tully, not when she could bear him a grandson or two. No, it must have been _them._

“Grandfather, Aunt Barbrey, did you know about this?” They must have, for who else would have wanted her dead? _I did not know your bitterness ran so deep. _How horrid. How wretched. _“Why?” _But he knew. The letter. _The Young Wolf must have shown them. He asked for terms and he showed them. _

“It’s my fault. Sansa, I’m sorry, they killed your mother and it’s my fault.” _There is no way out of this._ _Gods have mercy. “Gentle Mother, font of mercy – ” _but one look into the god’s face and he stopped himself. It was a pretty song, but the Seven-Who-Are-One were not his gods. Mercy would not come from the gods of his fathers. The old gods of the forest did not forgive, not like the new with their light and their love. Theirs was the law of nature, and the law of nature was the law of strength. The tall trees smothered the short in their race to the sun. The swiftest deer was spared the wolf, and the slyest fox outwitted the hunter. You won or you died, and when you died, you bled, and you returned to the dirt, and the blood and the dirt returned to the trees. And you did it again.

_Perhaps Catelyn Tully is in the Starry Heaven, and perhaps my mother is a bird. _He watched the sky, a falcon overhead, dark against the drifting snowflakes. _Mother, if you’re out there, I hope you’re flying free. I hope you’ve caught your dreams. _His mother could not have mercy, but she could have whatever a great bird of prey could have, up there, soaring high, where no one could hurt her. But higher still were the stars of heaven, and perhaps Catelyn Tully was there. _Gods have mercy on her soul._

It was snowing harder now, and his hands were still shaking. _There will be no mercy for me. I have to be strong. _But he didn’t feel strong, he wasn’t the hunter, he was the deer. In his chest was a creature that had broken its leg while running downstairs, steps unsteady, stumbling, falling. _He’s here. _He could hear his father’s voice again, after he had come back, after he’d been alone, after all his prayers had gone wrong. _Why did it have to be Mother? _Father was coming in through a door behind a tapestry, one he hadn’t known about, and slapped away his tears.

_Don’t weep, boy. Weep alone today and tomorrow they’ll see. You’re to be a man, so act like one. _Then his stockings were coming off, and the hilt of Father’s flaying knife was there, by his belt. _Don’t do it again. _And then Father was walking away.

“You said he couldn’t get me when he wasn’t there, Mother. You said if I accomplished something he couldn’t take it away. That I could make my dreams come true. And he couldn’t take it away.” _And I have, but he did._ “Mother, what if you were wrong?” _My Dommie lad, my love,_ she’d said, _don’t worry. Don’t think about the bad. You’ll end up bitter that way. Go outside, and clear your head. Or stay inside, and dream another dream. He can’t touch you in your dreams. _

“Dream another dream.” He could see it. He was down below, beneath the Dreadfort. _I’m taller than you,_ he said. _I’m stronger than you. _The blade was sharp, and the skin came up so easy. _The color red is beautiful._

He began to laugh. He laughed and laughed and laughed until he was out of breath, and finally, his heart was beating steady.

_Get up, you craven, _he told himself. _You’re useless here._ _Stand on your feet. _He wiped the meltwater from his face and rose, untied his horse, and walked into the swirling snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domeric - bro r u ok? He definitely needs a hug. You're not going to think clearly in the middle of a breakdown. Getting so many things wrong, but it's understsandable with limited info :(
> 
> I want to use this author's note to share some music. If I was going to score this fanfic, I would use the album "Adiemus IV - The Eternal Knot" by Karl Jenkins. It's available on spotify. The main theme would be "The Eternal Knot" and the Domeric & Sansa love theme would be "The Wooing of Etain". Another highlight is "King of the Sacred Grove". The album was used to score the BBC documentary "The Celts". It's a beautiful collection, definitely recommend checking it out.
> 
> Other music for this fic includes "Rolandskavet" by Trio Medieval (this is the Song of Roland reimagined in Norwegian), The Sofia Armenian Choir's rendition of the Cherubic Hymn, and selections from Karl Jenkins' album "Adiemus - Songs of Sanctuary." Hildegard von Bingen, other Gregorian chant. For the bells for the Faith of the Seven, search youtube for "russian orthodox bells" and "catholic bells".
> 
> Well, after this, I am officially out of *completed* buffer chapters. I am holding myself to posting the next chapter no later than the evening of 4/8 (Wednesday, because 4/9 is Holy Thursday). I'm going to hold myself to a bi-weekly schedule for the forseeable future. 
> 
> I will admit that I have not been able to get as much quarantine writing done as I would have liked this week, as the coronavirus situation has worsened. The vast majority of my close relatives live in the NY-NJ metro area, which is the coronavirus hotspot in the USA. Most of my attention is going to them right now. I've been spending much more of my free time keeping contact with my family, making sure they can see my kid on live video, hear my voice, etc. 
> 
> I grew up in NJ and spent most of my of summers in NYC. What's happening over there right now is breaking my heart. Regardless of who's right and who's wrong about whatever number of things, lots of people are going to die who wouldn't have died, and lots of people are going to be poorer who weren't poor before. The world will change, and for many people, for the worse. Regardless, I know that some good has to come out of this, even if it's as simple a thing as more young people calling their lonely grandparents more often, or people reconciling with their estranged family members. Telling someone you care about them is never overkill.
> 
> Lastly, I want to recommend a book that I read last week. I burned through it in a day. It is called "Finally, Some Good News", by a man who goes by the name of Delicious Tacos. It's a novel about the end of the world. Though he can be vulgar sometimes, his is some of the most emotional, efficient prose I've ever read. Extremely unique construction, tight plot, all details conserved. Things you thought were just stage-setting, characterization, etc turned out to be chekov's guns. Reading his work makes me want to be a better writer, more deliberate about word choice, more economic with my word count. He's not for everyone (he is not PC at all) but his writing elicited deep empathy from me that I haven't experienced from original fiction in a long time (since ASOIAF really). 
> 
> Hope all of you are doing well as you can be and that you and your loved ones are finding ways to stay healthy and connected. Finding purpose and strength through suffering. Thanks again for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, etc.


	37. Sansa XIII

_The blue gown, yes. The navy. I’ll wear that one today_. _He bought that gown in Duskendale, he told me I was beautiful. _She slipped into the heavy velvet and sighed, hugging herself tight. _Today I will be Sansa, not Danelle. _Sansa could wear the silver direwolf necklace, because Sansa had been a Stark. Today she was Sansa Bolton, but she had no pink jewelry to wear. _Pink stay laces, they will do instead. _And the pearl hairnet that Domeric gave to her.

As she pinned her hair up, she stared into the Myrish glass and began to hum _Six Maids in a Pool_. _Today I am a woman wed. _She looked no different – rosier cheeks, perhaps, and a smile that would not flee; and she felt no different, but for the sweet soreness in her thighs, in the secret place between her legs. She could not help but giggle. _It is not just my secret, it is ours. _She might not have felt different, but she knew she _was. I am not a maiden anymore._

Now she understood why Ysilla was always so cross with Ser Mychel, why Septa Mordane always spoke of the marital act as if it were something to be feared. _I would be cross too if this is what I was denied, and no girl would go to her marriage bed a maiden if she were not afraid. _If the first time had been merely _not bad_, the second and third had been _very good. _

In the middle of the night, she had woken to his lips upon hers. _Like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield,_ she thought. _And Princess Daeryssa. _The memory alone set her skin to warming, as if there was a candle in her heart. Or a star. _He plucked a star from the night heaven and ate of it, and then he shared it with me. _

“Sansa,” he’d told her, once she woke. “My lady wife. Let us be one again.” He’d kissed her face and her fingers and told her she was beautiful. She shivered and shifted in her chair.

“_You’re wicked!” _she’d nearly shouted, when he’d made to kiss her _there _again.

“No, my love,” he’d said, grinning like a devil from the seven hells. “Not wicked. When your husband does this, it is _good_.”

And she knew what the slick feeling meant now. “Not your moonblood, no.” The slick feeling was _good_ too. If she closed her eyes she could feel him again, his breath against her ear, his hand on top of hers, the hard muscles of his chest and legs against her back, her thighs. And his man’s staff – she could not help but giggle again, and blush besides. _I am not Randa, I am not Ysilla. _She could not talk that way, not even to herself. _What should I say to them? They will want to know…_

Three knocks on the door.

“Just a moment,” she said. She had to go over the story. One last time. _I was the one to ask him to marry me before the heart tree. He said no at first, but after the feast he changed his mind. No, he did not force me. I chose to go with him. _And she had to make sure she looked presentable for the convalidation. _It’s like a wedding, almost exactly the same_. She remembered her lessons with Septa Mordane. _I cannot have a wedding gown, but I can still be beautiful. _

Three more knocks on the door. “Sansa dear, please come out. My uncle would see you now.” It was Ryella.

“I am ready,” she said. “Good morning, Ryella.”

“Good morning, Sansa.” Ryella’s mouth tugged upward into a half-smile that did not reach her eyes. She seemed to struggle to find something to say. “You look lovely today.”

“Thank you,” she said. “As do you.” Though Ryella was not in her confinement yet, she would be soon. _I wonder if I will look quite so vital when I am with child. _Mother had been like Ryella, all shining hair and rosy cheeks, but with some women it was not that way. _Poor Lysa, ill again, _Mother had been oft to comment, when she’d receive a bird. _Come, my girls, pray with me_, _that your aunt may not end like your grandmother. _She’d have to keep Ryella in her prayers too.

“How is baby Frey today?” she asked. Ryella was not talkative this morning. She seemed to concentrate on her steps. That was just as well. _As the baby grows, you grow hard pressed to talk and walk and breathe, all three. You must pick two._

“Well,” Ryella said. “Kicking strong. Near the ribs last night.” Another half-smile.

There were no more words until they reached Lord Royce’s solar door. “Sansa,” Ryell said. Her shiny grey eyes darted back and forth. “When you go in there – when you speak with my uncle. Please remember. Two members of the same house can be as different as the sun and moon.”

It was a strange comment, but she nodded anyway. _Father used to say that about Arya and me. It could be said about anyone. Robb and Jon. Ryella and Randa. King Robert and Lord Renly. _“Of course,” she said.

Ryella let out a bated breath. “Thank you, Sansa,” she said, and pulled her into an embrace, tight and warm. Baby Frey gave a kick and Sansa felt it against her tummy. When she pulled away, Ryella’s half-smile reached her eyes.

“Uncle,” Ryella said. “Lady Sansa is here.” The half-smile died again.

Three knocks on the door.

***

“Domeric was right,” she whispered. It was the first thing she said since Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood showed her the crumpled-up piece of parchment. Once inside the solar, she’d seen their faces and she’d known. _Something is wrong. _When they bid her sit, a cold drip started down her shoulders, her back, like the time Arya dumped frog spawn down her shift. As she read, she felt her face numb up. She saw the room rush downwards, as if she were a bird, flapping back up from its perch on her shoulder. She reached the high ceiling – there were the pearls on her hairnet gleaming below, papers strewn on Lord Royce’s desk, Lady Waynwood kneading her hands together behind her back while Lord Royce tugged his whiskers – and then she was in the chair again.

_I knew it was too good to be true. _Her run of good luck was bound to stop, and here it had. They were gone. Robb and Mother were gone, just like Lady was gone, and Father was gone, Arya was gone, Bran and Rickon were gone. _Gone, gone, gone. _

_I am alone again._

Memories stabbed her eyes like the noonday sun after too long sleeping. _Maegor’s Holdfast again. _Twisted sheets, stinking with damp sweat. Food piling up beneath the window panes. _My tower is so high. The stones are so far down. No, the bed, the bed, it’s cold, I’m so cold_.

But she could not think that way. She _would_ not think that way. _There is hope. I will find my hope and I will seize it._

_I am a Stark. I must be brave, like Robb was brave. I must be strong as my lady mother was strong_. _I am the Queen in the North._

It would be nothing like Maegor’s Holdfast. _I am not a prisoner, I am a guest. _There was no Ser Ilyn at Runestone, with his sinister grin and stinking grimace. Lord Royce was not Queen Cersei, and Maester Helliweg would never dream of touching her the way Maester Pycelle did. _And if he did, Domeric would not let him. Domeric has friends here. I have friends here. I am not alone._

“Domeric was right,” she said, louder, raising her chin. _My voice must not waver, my voice must not shake. I am a Stark and I am brave. I am the Queen in the North. _She straightened her back against the wooden chair, hard and tall, and gripped the armrests to test how strong she was. “About his father and Lord Frey. We should have listened to him.”

“Aye,” Lord Royce sighed. His bushy eyebrows and whiskers seem to droop, like a glum and long-faced owl. “Aye, we should have. My girl, I am so sorry. I was wrong. I led you to believe…”

Lord Royce could not finish.

“Stevron Frey was well-loved here,” supplied Lady Waynwood, steady and slow, her frame sad and green like a willow tree. More than her widow’s knot and her lined face, the misty sheen over her eyes and the grim set of her mouth made her look weary and old. “My late goodbrother. His son Walton, and my goodson Geremy too. And all their get. Upstanding young men and ladies all. It was easy to believe… It was easy to forget. About Lord Walder and the rest. Lady Sansa, I am so sorry. We all would have been wrong about… _this_.”

She nodded. _A crime that cries out to the gods for vengeance. _Even Domeric thought his father and the Freys would have turned their cloaks and fought in the open field. Even Domeric would not have expected _this. I would not have expected this. _She thought of Ryella and baby Frey, of young Ryella and Alyn and Androw, innocent and sweet. And of Domeric too. _It was easy to believe. It was easy to forget. _

_Two members of the same house can be as different as the sun and moon._

She turned the parchment over again, and reread the Frey septon’s account of Uncle Edmure’s wedding on the reverse. The armrest had sloping grooves in it from where larger hands had gripped.

“There is no need to be sorry, my lord, my lady. There is nothing that you could have done. It happened a fortnight ago. There would not have been time.” The ravens had flown to Riverrun and the Wall and Harrenhal, but by the time they arrived, it would have been too late. _Mother and Robb and Lord Bolton were already on their way. To the Twins._

“My lady, that may be so, but there are – beyond condolences we can still provide you with aid,” started Lord Royce. “This situation – there is Stark blood here. In the Vale. Tully blood. Lady Lysa has bent the knee, but this _must _rouse her – Lord Baelish can be dealt with - the Freys and the Boltons, they do not have to hold your sister, it is clear that wedding was a _sham_ \- ”

“It’s not her,” Sansa cut in. That was the most insulting part of it all. _How dare they._ “That was why they killed my mother. She had more value as a hostage. They have a fake. A pretender. My mother would have known. So they killed her.” _I am a Stark and I am brave. I must be brave like Arya was brave. _“No one could find her when they killed everyone. In the Tower of the Hand. Before my father was killed. If she didn’t escape the Red Keep, they killed her and didn’t want Robb to know. And if she did, she would have died in Flea Bottom.”

“Are you sure?” Lady Waynwood said. “This here – Septon Grover’s account. He says Lord Tully gave her away.”

But Sansa shook her head. “My uncle only met Arya once. And she was very small. Still a baby. It was a long time ago. He would have been easy to fool.” She looked around the room. _Domeric was supposed to be here. _“Where is Ser Domeric?”

“I received him here this morning,” said Lord Royce. “These tidings shocked him sore. He left to think before we had the chance to truly speak. To ride his horse, Mychel said. It is his way. He will return.” He tugged on his beard. “My girl – my lady. What do you intend to do? Stark and Royce, we are friends. If it is in my power to help you…” His eyes met hers, and Sansa understood.

“House Waynwood too, my lady.” Sansa nodded.

“Septon Grover said that many Northmen and rivermen were killed. Thousands. My kingdom is broken.”

“Aye.”

She took her hands off the armrests and began to twist them together. _My cause is lost. _What rivermen remained had bent the knee, or would bend the knee soon. _They were broken anyhow. _What Northmen remained were staunch for Bolton. _Bolton and Dustin and Ryswell stand as one, and the Tallharts and the Cerwyns and the Hornwoods need leadership. _That’s what Domeric had said. He had been right before.

The painful way was clear to her. _Robb, Mother, forgive me. _All her pieces were off the map. She was surrounded, and all aid came with strings attached. _I do not know what I would have to give up. I have nothing to give up. Nothing but a dead man’s crown._

Queen in the North for hardly a fortnight. _I cannot kill more Northerners. I cannot ask the Valemen to fight for me when Aunt Lysa has bent the knee. _She could see it. Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood would sail North, and take the Dreadfort from the east. Perhaps other Valemen would march after them, but some would remain loyal to Aunt Lysa. If they tried to march east to the Twins, they’d never make it past the High Road, or the Mountains of the Moon. There would be bloodshed outside Runestone and Ironoaks, when the Vale had been at peace. _And the Crown would follow. _The Lannisters and the Tyrells. _A fine excuse to mend their quarrels._

She shivered, and remembered. _Winter is coming. _

There was no way out but through. _We would lose. The Boltons hold the North. They’d marry me to Domeric anyway. _She could not ask him to fight his family for nothing. A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed it. _Not now. _Her face was still numb. _He is my lord husband. This is what he would have me do._

_Robb, Mother, forgive me. Bran and Rickon, forgive me. Arya, Father, forgive me. _She drew her hands toward her belly._ I must be staunch for Bolton too. _

“I will bend the knee,” she said, looking from Lord Royce to Lady Waynwood and back. “When Aunt Lysa arrives. I will bend the knee to her. As for – for what was done. Lord Bolton and Lord Frey – there must be some way to censure them, while we keep the peace. It – it can be sorted out. My firstborn son with Domeric, he can take the name Stark when Lord Bolton is gone – ”

Lord Royce nodded at her, his hand over his mouth, his bushy brows knitting together, saying nothing. But her words stirred something in Lady Waynwood, and suddenly she looked taller, straighter, not quite so old or weary anymore. “Sweet girl,” she said. “You would capitulate so easily? This was a _crime against the gods_. The Boltons – you would reward them? Just walk into their waiting arms? Where is your fire? Your wolf’s blood? My grandmother Jocelyn – ”

But Sansa held her face firm, and Lady Waynwood’s expression fell into disbelief, and it was Lord Royce who filled the silence.

“Anya. Such strife among us is not needed now. Think of Baelish, of our plans. You say your Frey kin here are upstanding young men and ladies. I say, Domeric Bolton is an upstanding young man. Gods be good, Anya, not seven nights past he sat in that chair talking through reparations packages with me for crimes committed by his bastard brother. His _would-be usurper _with designs on his life! Crimes he had no part in, for which he was not responsible. That young man will do anything in his power to offer recompense. If he would do that for Wyman Manderly, what would he do for the lady he was already seeking to wed? I say to you, Domeric Bolton is the finest sort. I vouch for him. Horton will too. Horton – he is half Bolton himself. This path to peace we can all endorse – ”

“Yohn. You forget _tradition. _There has _never been _a Stark-Bolton marriage. It is _not done – _”

“What does that matter _now_, Anya? _Why _is that not done? This grudge across eight thousand years can be healed with a wedding vow. Anya, the way young Bolton tells it, the North is _divided. _Half the houses in the North have bent the knee. This is an acceptable solution. The girl said – the name of Stark can be _preserved – _she wants to wed him anyhow – ”

It took her a moment. _They do not know, _she realized. _He did not tell them. _Sansa opened her mouth to speak but Lady Waynwood and Lord Royce seemed to be talking past her.

“I cannot tell you why it is not done, Yohn, but it _isn’t. _And the boy keeps the old gods. How could he possibly offer _recompense _but by spilling his own kin’s blood? He is damned either way.” Then Lady Waynwood seemed to remember that Sansa was there.

“Sweet girl. I said nothing while the decision was your brother’s, but now it is yours. I offer you my counsel, as a lady who has been the head of my house for a very long time. From an older woman to a younger one. From kin to kin, for Stark blood runs through my veins through the female line. This talk of marriage with the Bolton boy. It is _folly_. It does not matter what he did for you. If you marry him, they all will think you _weak. _Ruling ladies _cannot afford _to look weak. Not even for a moment. Capitulation will stick on you _forever_, and the lords will circle, gifts in one hand, knives behind their back, waiting to press their advantage. You must be _tougher_ than they are. Less forgiving. You cannot bear arms yourself, but your knights can, and they must know that you will use them, that you _can win. _It is something I tried to tell your aunt, but she would not heed my counsel. I hope you will. To you, Sansa Stark, I offer all my support. House Frey – there are cracks we can exploit – ”

She knew now to ask before answering. She’d learned. “And what would you ask of me?”

“Ask? Nothing. I _offer _you more Stark blood to fill out your line. Lord Yohn is right about the Bolton boy’s reputation. With what happened, you are presumed to be soiled, but I have all confidence that it is not the case. But that matters very little here. My grandson Roland, he looks the spitting image of your uncle Brandon, the lords of the North will see him and _remember – ”_

In an instant she imagined Ser Roland touching her the way Domeric had touched her, _in _her the way Domeric had been in her, and her tummy roiled like a cauldron over a cookfire. _Get off, get out, get away from me. _The scene behind her eyes was invasive, _sickening, _handsome though Ser Roland was. Stinky garlic breath like the smallfolk at the bread riots, putrid against her face. _This is what it means to be ruined_, she thought. _If you lie in love with one man and wed another, you will flinch beneath your husband’s hands._

“I don’t want Ser Roland – ”

“Oh? Is it my son Wallace that you would prefer? The both of you did speak at length at the feast. That is all well with me, what matters is that the Boltons do not take hold of Winterfell – ”

“No.” _Winterfell. It all comes down to Winterfell. _Domeric never wanted Winterfell. She could not say the same for Lady Waynwood, but it did not matter to her. It was already done. She looked around the room to gather herself before speaking again. _The bloody sheet. It’s there. _She swept it off the other chair, spread it out, and stood. _I’m taller than her_, she noticed.

“I am already wed to Domeric Bolton,” she said, cold and firm as permafrost. “This evening past we said our vows before the heart tree, and we will keep them. _I _will keep them. Our marriage has been consummated. This is the bloody sheet. I understand that it must be convalidated with at least one witness because I was named in the Light of the Seven. Please inform Septon Lucos that I would request his presence once Ser Domeric returns.”

Lord Royce’s bushy brows rose halfway to his hairline, but Lady Waynwood’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth. _I will not be interrupted again._

“I was the one to ask him to marry me before the heart tree. I convinced him when he had refused me before. I was not forced. I chose to go with him. Thank you, Lady Waynwood, for your most generous offer of support. I am afraid I must decline. I am the Queen in the North, and it was my decision. It has been made. It will not change. Lord Royce, I will be taking my leave now. Thank you.”

Sansa draped the sheet where Domeric had left it on the chair. Unfolded and swaying in the draft, it looked like a boxy ghost amidst all the bronze. Lord Royce was covering his mouth again, and the disbelief was back on Lady Waynwood’s face. Lady Waynwood reached for the broken wheel brooch at her breast but Sansa did not see her hand meet its mark. She was already out the door.

***

When she reached the heart tree she could sob at last. _Robb, Robb, I’m so sorry. _Her knees hit the hard ground and she did not care that the white bark scraped her palms. _I thought so ill of you, Robb. In your last days. If I could take it all back, I could. My brother, I love you, I’m so sorry. _Late autumn snowflakes drifted downward, melting in her hair. It was like that too, the day they said goodbye. _I’ll be calling you ‘your grace’ when next we see each other, sister. _She hugged herself tight, the way Robb used to hug her. _I should have been the one calling him ‘your grace’. We should have seen each other again. _

Her breaths came out short and choppy, jittery, with ugly _hicking _sounds. Her nose was wet, runny, salty, like a dog’s. Or a wolf’s. _Lady, come back, I need you. _The leaves rustled, and for a moment it was as if Lady was there, her paws padding soft on the forest floor. But it wasn’t Lady. It was just the tree. _From the old gods we came, to the old gods we’ll return. All our loved ones who are gone. All our ancestors. They’re there. In the tree. And they’re around us too. They could be anywhere where green things grow and life draws breath. _That’s what Domeric had said to her.

_Lady’s here. Robb too. I am not alone. _There were no more tears. _I will see this through._ They’d find a way to make things right. _It was a crime against the gods. The whole realm demands recompense that Lord Bolton and Lord Frey must render up to me. _

The walk to the sept was quiet. Eerily so. _It’s not net noon. _When the noontide bells rang, the castle would wake again, but for now the snow that had fallen in the night left it blanketed, still, in a white, enchanted slumber, or a burial shroud.

A creak of a door, the echoes of footfalls. The sept was dark, for dawn had not yet come. Her hands shook as she lit Mother’s candle at the Stranger’s feet. _Mother will not live in the heart tree. _As she knelt and looked upward the candlelight hit the statue’s moonstone eyes, piercing out from behind his mask, beneath his hood. _I hope your kiss was kind to her, as Mother was always kind to me. I love you, Mother. _The Stranger’s face was hidden but it was Father that she saw. _Mother goes to Father, but Father judges me. _She thought she was done with this, but how could she blame Robb at all, right now, today? _Mother, Robb, Rickon, Bran, Arya. All of them because of what I did. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Father – _

“Father,” came a straining voice. She’d left the door ajar, a stripe of light stabbing through the seven hells on the floor. “They’ve ruined our lives. Our reputations. Bry and Sandor, who will want to knight them? And we’ll never make good marriages. Walda and Cynthea, what will they do? Who will want a Frey bride now? Father, we have to _do_ something. Our honor – ”

“Steffon. My son. You are being _selfish_. It is unbecoming of a knight. You say _your _life was ruined? What of Lord Tully and Lady Lysa? What of Her Grace? What of Elmar and our princess? There are ways forward. Our honor can be restored. But how can you bring back a life? We cannot raise the dead. I say to you, this talk here is done. We’ll work through this with Aunt Anya later. Now. Collect yourself. Say a prayer to the Warrior. Be the man your grandfather would have wanted you to be. Set a good example for Sandor and your brother. Stand tall and straight and show your cousin Cynthea that she has someone to protect her. Be the_ honor _of House Frey.”

It was Ser Walton and Ser Steffon. Freys. Sansa remained as still as she could while the pair strode in. They took no notice of her. _The gods are mocking me. They look like Father and Jon. _Before she’d found it heartening, but now she saw only ghosts.

“When I squired for my uncle the Lord Protector we paid a trip to the Eyrie once,” Ser Walton had said to her, when they’d been introduced. “His Grace was there. King Robert, I mean, gods rest his soul. Do you know what he said to me, my princess? _Ned! Seven Hells Ned, why are you wearing those? Prancing off to Ironoaks, are you?” _But Ser Walton laughed more than Father ever had, and he wore his beard differently to hide his weak chin. “Then your father came out, all stern and serious, and said, _Yes, Robert. I am prancing off to Ironoaks. _And then he came and stood next to me…”

She did not want to stand next to Ser Walton now. _If I’m too loud leaving, they will see me. _Besides, there were more footfalls at the door. Another creak, and the sept doors swung wide, and stuck. The light from the corridor poured in, and the dawn light poured down through the dome, and her hands danced with rainbows.

“Father, I have Sandor and Cynthea.” The towheaded squire Bryan Frey’s whisper carried. Dressed in Hunter colors, he had a stocky, dark-haired girl on his arm, younger than Sansa but older than Arya, and her eyes were stained with tears. Behind them was another squire, a younger one but tall for his age, stocky and dark-haired too. Both boys were sad and grim. They met Ser Walton and Ser Steffon at their pew.

“Uncle Walton, is it true?” the girl said. “About what Grandfather did? It’s so… so awful. It _can’t _be...”

Sansa turned her face away. A sigh, the rustle of wool on wool. “I’m afraid so, my dear. It’s true.”

“Everyone will hate us now.”

“That’s not true, Cynthea. Aunt Anya doesn’t hate us. She’s family, she’ll never hate us. Roland and Wallace will never hate us. Harry will never hate us.” That was Ser Steffon.

“But you hate Black Walder,” the girl said. “And – and you hate Uncle Ryman, and Uncle Edmyn, and Uncle Lothar – ”

“That’s not the same,” Ser Steffon said quickly. “That’s not the same.”

“Cynthea,” said Ser Walton. “Some will hate us, yes. But the Faith will clear our names. We were here – we had no part. We repudiate this. We repudiate this. We’ll be better. We’ll prove them wrong.” Cynthea Frey sniffled. “Did Ryella say she was coming?”

“She’s with the babies. She’ll be here before Septon Lucos.” That was Bryan again.

“Aye, then. Come here, everyone.” The shuffle of feet, the echoes of footfalls. “Now. Times will be hard for us. Our family. There’s no denying that. We must fight tooth and nail to earn back our good names. To earn the realm’s good graces. There can be no mistakes. We must be perfect, as the Seven ask us to be perfect. As just as the Father. As merciful as the Mother. As brave as the Warrior and as diligent as the Smith. Blameless as the Maiden and as wise as the Crone. Long and hard shall be our toil, and though we might never live to reap the seeds we have sown, sow them we must. House Frey has stood six hundred years. Should it fall in disgrace, let it be after six hundred more. Let no one say that the Freys of the blood of Ironoaks stood by and watched while our kinsmen dragged our house in to the dark.”

The Waynwood Freys murmured in assent, and then Ser Walton led them in the opening prayers of the Luminary. _Time to go. _They were in too deep to hear her leaving.

***

In her chambers, she watched the frost creep up the window pane as the snow drifted down and the sunlight swelled and dimmed away. The soft black leather of Domeric’s book of poetry was smooth and cool against her palms. Absently she flipped the pages before pressing the book closed. Her eyes could not settle on the words. She reached behind her hair and unfastened her necklace. Two direwolves, snarling and silver and cold.

“Sansa, would you like to break your fast with us?” That’s what Ysilla’s voice had said, after three knocks on the door. “Cassie and Jessie and Randa and me.”

“No thank you, Ysilla. I am not hungry.”

“Shall I have something sent up for you?”

“That would be best. Thank you.” She wouldn’t eat it but she’d known better than to refuse. “When Domeric returns, will you send for me?”

“Of course.”

A maid came up with a tray of sweetbread, cheese, and sausages. She barred the door and let the food languish on the desk. When the maid begged entrance to collect her dishes she did not bother answering.

Evening had fallen, the sunset muted behind the densely gathered clouds. She watched the tide go out and in and out again, the waves rocking the ships in port like wind on the leaves. Her window faced the sea. _North. _Winterfell was there, over the water, perhaps seven days by ship to White Harbor, and then a long ride through the snow. _I’ll be going home soon._ It wouldn’t be the same, but she wouldn’t be alone. Wherever a heart tree was, there the Starks would be, and nowhere was that more true than beneath Winterfell’s heart tree, in its quiet godswood with its hot spring pools and sentinel pines and tall granite walls. _I am strong within the walls of Winterfell. _

“Sansa.” Three knocks once again. It was Ysilla’s voice again. “Would you let me in, Sansa? I have your supper.” Ysilla she could not ignore like a serving maid.

Her friend was alone when she opened the door. Ysilla was wearing bronze today, a plainer gown trimmed with rune-stitched ribbons, and red stones in her hair. She looked very tired and her voice was hoarse. “The Redforts are here,” she started, slowly. The tray she carried bore food enough for two. “Domeric is with them.”

“We will… be meeting them after supper?”

Ysilla shook her head and began to lay the food out on the table. Beet salad and sturgeon stew. “Not tonight, no.”

“Why?”

Ysilla chewed on her words and then frowned. “I will not lie to you,” she said. “I do not care what I was told. Domeric requested not to see you.”

It was as if Ser Meryn punched her with his gauntlet again. Her belly growled but she could not eat. She opened her mouth but she could not speak.

“I don’t know why,” said Ysilla. “It’s what Mychel told me. He’s with my goodfather. They all are. Mychel and Cassie and Dom.”

Somehow she found her voice. “What happened?” It was all that she could say.

Ysilla pushed her plate away too. “I – I don’t know. There was no reception in the courtyard, they didn’t send anyone ahead to let us know. It was fine, their rooms were ready, but – they were just let in. I was taking the midday meal with Cassie, and then Jessie and Mychel came to take her away, and then Andar brought me to Father’s solar, and then they told me about tomorrow, and then I went to see Cassie and Mychel, because they knew where he was. Domeric. And you wanted to see him.” She covered the lower half of her face and waited before speaking again. “Mychel and Cassie. They yelled at me. The both of them. They’re normally so sweet. They never yell at me.” Ysilla put her face in her hands and made a noise before looking up again. “I’m sorry, Sansa. You don’t need to hear about my troubles. I’m here to tell you about tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. So. The convalidation will be tomorrow. All the lords here in attendance. As witnesses. Then. Father and Lady Anya. They’ll help you open terms.”

“Terms?”

“A contract. For your marriage. You’ll send it to Lord Bolton. Then there will be another feast. A small one. And a bedding.” Neither of them were eating, so Ysilla rose and gave her a tight hug. “I’m sorry, Sansa. No girl’s wedding is supposed to be like this. Mourning on your wedding day.” Ysilla’s arms grew slack. “I’m sorry. I know – you want to be alone. I can leave – ”

“No,” she said. “No. It’s all right.” She was tired of being alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal in this chapter was to have Sansa stand up for herself. I hope I pulled it off all right. I understand that the position she stakes out here might be contraversial but she's wearing Domeric goggles, and his predictions have turned out all right so far (to the extent that she knows). Robb was already in a precarious position, and with the Red Wedding taking out a significant chunk of his forces, fighting wouldn't make sense unless something were to happen to materially weaken the Crown. 
> 
> I have assigned myself a deadline for Sing that Silly Song (It's a New World). Part 2 will be up before April is finished. These last chapters have been kind of depressing to work with, as was Germinal. Oof. It will be good to write some fluffy crack. 
> 
> Also. A cool about me fun fact! I took this fictional character psychometrics quiz (https://openpsychometrics.org/tests/characters) and it turned out my highest match was Sansa (81%). I thought that was hella cool. Others I got between the 79-80% range were (in most to least similar order) were Angela Martin (the Office), Charlotte York (Sex and the City), Betty Draper (Mad Men), Catelyn Stark (GOT), and Petunia Dursley (Harry Potter). If you have taken this quiz, who are you most similar to? 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story with your readership, comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. See you next time. The next chapter will be posted no later than the night of April 23rd/morning April 24th. Part of the reason chapters are growing farther apart is that they are getting longer. Earlier in this story they stayed around 3k-4k, now they're more like 5k each. 
> 
> Stay safe out there everyone. Best wishes to you and yours.


	38. Sansa XIV

“You’re beautiful, Sansa,” Ysilla said. Ysilla was threading lavender stalks into her hair.

“The most beautiful,” Myranda said. Myranda was lacing up her gown.

_I do not feel beautiful, _Sansa thought. _How can I feel beautiful if my lord husband does not want me._

After their unfinished supper, Ysilla had walked her through the corridors to her chambers, passing beneath proud bronze statues of Royces, ancient all. They had long stern faces and cold hard eyes. _These were kings and queens. The Bronze Kings of Runestone. First Men warriors tall and strong_. The oldest reminded her of the Kings of Winter in the crypts beneath Winterfell. _They judge me. They fought to the end. Until they could fight no more. They bent the knee with swords at their throats and their backs against the mountain cliffs. I bent the knee without fighting at all. Even the King Who Knelt knelt before dragonfire._

_I must not regret this. I am making the right choice. _A Queen needed resolve, even if she was only Queen for a day.

“The whites are all here,” Ysilla had said. “Erm. Sansa, I’m so sorry, you should have your own gown, but there’s no time – erm. We can make a cloak for you, Randa and me, it won’t be the most detailed, but it will be. Erm – ”

“I’m sure it will be beautiful,” she’d replied. “I know that it will serve.”

Her wedding gown had been Ysilla’s. They were of a height, after all. “I did not have a bedding. We were all in mourning. It would have been inappropriate,” Ysilla had told her. _I am mourning too. _At night they’d shared a bed and huddled together between the furs. _So many things we share. _Ysilla had lost brothers too. _Now we each have only one. _“They just left, and then they were gone. Robar – we quarreled. We were supposed to see each other again,” Ysilla had confided. _I just left, and they were gone. Robb and I were supposed to see each other again._

And Ysilla’s husband rarely wanted her either. _So many things we share._

“Sansa, my lady, could you press your bosom in? With your hands. Like that. I’m sorry, these laces – ”

“It is no trouble, Myranda.” Today she would be sore pressed to breathe.

“There now. We’re ready.” Her gown was white damask. Ivory chasings. Bronze runes were stitched around the deep neckline and the hems of her bell sleeves, the hem that swept the floor. Her undersleeves were iron grey. Bronze and Iron. First Men colors. She wore her silver direwolf necklace again.

“Wait – ” Ysilla said. “The girdle. It’s bronze, but I have a silver one. Silver for the Starks. There. That’s better.” They helped her into her cloak.

The bells had rung for an hour to hail the coming of the bride. _It’s a death knell, _she thought. _For Mother and for Robb. For Robb’s men and for his kingdom. _Her progress felt like a walk of shame. _Mother, Robb, forgive me._

Ser Roland met them at the doors of the sept. “Hello, my lady. You look lovely,” he said, as he scanned her up and down. It hurt to look at him. _He reminds me of the statues in the crypts. Uncle Brandon and the rest. All these Waynwoods do. _He paused before speaking. “Lady Sansa, I do not know you,” he said. “But here, I am your next of kin. I will be escorting you today. My lady, you have my most sincere condolences. I cannot imagine… well. It should have been your uncle Lord Tully or at least little Lord Robert, but. Alas. Shall we go in, my lady?”

“Yes, ser. Thank you.” She took Ser Roland’s arm. The sept was still arrayed in all its glories from the Feast not two nights’ past: on each altar, uncounted flickering candles, heavy golden monstrances set with moonstone prisms, and heavier gold-fringed banners with the colors and the sigil of each god. _Hail, Morning Star, _they said. _Hail, Seven-Who-Are-One, Come Down from Heaven High._ _Hail, the Dawn has Returned. Hail the Victory of the Light, the Light of the Seven that Shall Always Prevail._

Ser Roland leaned to whisper in her ear. “I am sorry, my lady. The ceremony will be long. My grandmother – Lady Waynwood. She insisted. On the ceremony.” The rainbows, they were blinding. It was nearly noon, and the sun was high. The sept was packed with guests, knights and ladies all, and the guests were awash in light.

He was there, with Septon Lucos, standing before the Father, bending down to whisper to an older man, a shorter man, a man cloaked in red. _Lord Redfort, _she realized. Lord Redfort turned; he heard them. In the sept, steps echoed. Lord Redfort squeezed his shoulder and whispered again, pat his back, and left for the pews.

On his back was his long pink greatcloak, the one they’d dug up in Duskendale. The flayed man of Bolton, screaming in pain, bleeding, dying. Red. He wore his suit of armor, red enamel, black plate. No helmet. It struck her for a second time, seeing it again. _He is the flayed man._ _He is the one being tortured. He is the one whose heart is bleeding. _He did not look so fearsome now. Instead he looked afraid. His beard was gone. He was clean shaven again. She had the urge to stroke his jaw. His fine mouth quivered, and his pale eyes gleamed. Unborn tears, they might have been, but then his eyes closed for a moment, and then he opened them again. His gaze flattened, shining no more, and his mouth, his face, became still as stone, placid and inscrutable. _A mask. That’s what that is. _Among the moonstones and the polished gold and beneath the dancing rainbows his armor shone dim. Where he stood, the light seemed to die. _A mask, a monster, and a cloak. He stands beneath the Father but he looks more like the Stranger. _He looked like a stranger.

She reached the altar of the Mother with Ser Roland. _He still smells the same. _

It started with the singing. A robed godsworn gave them cards to hold, her part above, his below. The Father and the Mother, King Hugor and his queen. On Ser Roland’s arm she watched Domeric’s card tremble in his gauntleted hands. When the choir fell silent for his part, his voice came out shaky and hollow. It did not sound like him. _Domeric’s singing voice is beautiful_.

The readings were next, from the Seven-Pointed Star, chanted in seven tones. She watched him as Septon Lucos read. He stood still as a statue, straight as a pike, and in his face and in his eyes she could find nothing at all. Beneath his plate she could not see him breathing. He would have looked dead if he hadn’t blinked once in a while. A handsome corpse. It was quite unsettling. _He looks like his father. He looks like Roose Bolton._

They knelt, for it was time for the prayers and the blessings. She watched his lips move and he looked alive again. He looked up past Septon Lucos, up to the Father and his judgement scales. He swallowed, and when the apple in his throat bobbed, she thought she saw fear once more.

It was time for the vows. “Ser Domeric Bolton,” Septon Lucos said. “A knight anointed and true. As the Mother is merciful and forgiving, so you are charged to be merciful and forgiving to your wife in all your dealings. As the Maiden is chaste and faithful, so you are charged to be chaste, and faithful to your wife in all your dealings. As the Crone is wise and leads us all down the path of Light, the Way of Truth, so you are charged to be wise and lead your wife down the path of Light, the Way of Truth, in all your dealings. Do you so vow to accept these charges, with a clean soul, a free will, a sound mind, and a pure heart?”

“So do I vow,” Domeric whispered. She barely saw his lips move.

“You must speak louder, ser,” Septon Lucos hissed. “Our guests cannot hear you.”

“So do I vow,” Domeric said again, loud and clear.

“Lady Sansa Stark,” Septon Lucos said to her. “A woman grown and flowered. As the Father is just and righteous, so you are charged to accept your husband’s righteous judgment, and to mete out righteous judgment in his stead. As the Warrior is brave and fearless, so you are charged to stoke your husband’s bravery, to soothe your husband’s fears, and to ride to the birthing bed with all the bravery and fearlessness of a knight riding to war. As the Smith is diligent and tireless, so you are charged to be diligent and tireless in the keeping of your husband’s house and the rearing of your husband’s children. Do you so vow to accept these charges, with a clean soul, a free will, a sound mind, and a pure heart?”

“So do I vow,” Sansa said.

“Ser Domeric Bolton and Lady Sansa Stark. Do you so vow to share the cup of life, in all its sorrows, joys, and glories, and together accept whatever fate, whatever fortune, the Seven-Who-Are-One mete out as yours?”

“So do I vow,” they said.

“You have so vowed to keep these charges. On the day the Stranger meets you know that the Father will weigh these vows against your soul.” The rainbow light danced on Domeric’s face, and for a moment he did not look afraid. His jaw was clenching and unclenching; his eyes were serious, his mouth grave. Then he blinked and the fear was back. “You may now take the bride under your protection.”

Ser Roland’s hands were deft and graceful. The direwolf was gone. Domeric’s hands fumbled as he released his two angry stallions from their pink bonds. He stepped behind her and ghosted his lips against her cheek when he draped her in the flayed man, heavy against her form. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. His breath stank something awful.

“_Take off the gauntlets,_” Septon Lucos ordered, under his breath. “My word. Why on earth did you wear this?” Domeric obeyed, and they clattered to the floor. When they were gone he placed his right hand, clammy and cold, over hers, grip tight, knuckles white. Septon Lucos said his part for all the guests to hear, and bound them together with a chain, linked in bronze, engraved with runes. It belonged to the Royce family. _Cursed, _she thought she saw on Domeric’s lips. _Eternity._

They said the names of the seven gods. “I am his, and he is mine, from this day until my last day.”

She knew what came next. “With this kiss I pledge my love,” they said, “and take you for my lord and husband,” she said.

“And take you for my lady and wife.” He placed a finger under her chin and leaned in. His eyes were very sad, like that night, before they docked at Gulltown. He was hurting. “I’m sorry,” he told her, almost too soft to hear. Then he kissed her with lips as cold and still as death. _That’s not his kiss. That’s not him. _She wound her arms around his neck and opened herself to him. _It’s not your fault, _she wanted to tell him. _My lord, please let me in. _There was bile on his tongue but she did not care. In the back of her mind she thought that she heard clapping.

They broke apart and it was time to leave. The choir began to sing, and the bells began to ring. She looked up at him and waited. Instead of offering her his arm he looked to the pews. Lord Redfort and Lady Waynwood were arguing in front, hushed, whispering. One of Lord Redfort’s sons saw them and tapped his father on the shoulder. Lord Redfort stood and swept her husband away, his red-clad sons jumping up to follow them. The tallest one had his arms around Domeric’s shoulders. Ser Mychel hurried to fetch Domeric’s gauntlets.

The knights and the ladies began to leave. As they filed out the door they signed a parchment held up by the godsworn. Ysilla and Myranda bid goodbye to her, and Lord Royce too. “They will see you at the feast, my lady,” he said. “I will see you in the small hall. Attached to my solar. When it is time to discuss terms. I will be moderating your negotiations.”

“_Your grace_ – ” came a voice.

“Ser Steffon,” she said. He was there, dressed in a quartered doublet. Waynwood and Hardyng, and the twin towers of Frey. But he still looked like Jon to her.

“I – ” he started. “I would fight for you, your grace. I would swear you my sword – ”

Her throat constricted. Above Ser Steffon stood the mighty Warrior, staring straight with hard moonstone eyes, his sword sharp and gleaming with rainbows. _Brave and fearless. He fought. _

“Steffon,” said Ser Walton. “That’s enough. It is as Aunt Anya says. She has bent the knee. We must bend the knee.” Ser Walton crossed the sept to speak with her. “My lady. Lady Sansa. There is nothing that we can do for you to make things right. But if there is anything that we might do for you – ”

“Anything at all,” Ryella said. She was standing behind them. All of the Freys were standing behind them. She did not know what to say. _I do not want to speak with them. I want to see my husband._

“Your kindness is enough, my ladies, sers.” She let Ryella hug her. “It has been decided.” _I am making the right choice. I must not regret this. A Queen must have resolve, even if only Queen for a day._

“Lady Stark,” said Lady Waynwood, elegant in black and green. “If you would come with me. I will prepare you. I will help you. These terms – you must not give an inch – ”

“Thank you, Lady Waynwood,” she said. _Stand tall and straight, like the Starks of Winterfell. _“I am very grateful for your help. But I would see my lord husband first.”

Lady Waynwood’s lined face softened. “Oh, my,” she said. “It seems you do love that young man very much.” The older woman sighed. “Believe it or not, I do know what that was like.” Her tired expression could have been a smile. “Of course. Of course, my lady.”

It was snowing as they crossed the castle wards. She pulled her cloak around herself. _His cloak_. The flayed man, pink and red.

“We’re going to Maester Helliweg’s turret,” she commented.

“You are correct, my lady. That is where we are going.”

“You’re taking too much,” said a voice behind the door, a voice of a man she did not know. “That pallor is abnormal – ”

“He is young and strong,” said Maester Helliweg. “There will be no harm. Look, my lord, they’re almost finished.”

“I shall leave you,” Lady Waynwood said. “Send for me when you are done. We do have much to speak on.” She knocked thrice on the door and disappeared.

It was Ser Mychel who answered. He opened the door just enough to show his whole face. His pale eyes widened, and then narrowed to their normal size. “My lady,” he said. “We were not expecting you.”

“I would like to see my husband – ”

“Who’s there?” It was quiet, but it was him. Domeric.

Ser Mychel turned his head. “It is the Lady Sansa,” he called.

“She may enter,” Domeric said. Ser Mychel stepped back and swung the door open all the way, allowing her inside. Lord Redfort and two of his elder sons stood against the windows while Maester Helliweg leaned over Domeric with a small Myrish lens. Her husband was lying back on a pallet, naked, his head propped up by goose down pillows. Swollen black leeches clung to the inner portions of his finely muscled arms and legs, and dotted his solid chest, pale as the sheets. His eyes met hers for a moment, and then they raked downwards and back up again, very slowly. His man’s member twitched awake and she shivered. He was the one without clothes, but she felt naked too. “My mother always attended my father’s leeching sessions.” He bared his teeth in a smile that was nearly sinister.

“They are finished, I think,” said Maester Helliweg. He took a pair of tweezers from the table with his tools and began to pluck them off, placing them into a jar. They left pale pink marks on his skin.

“Thank you, maester.”

“Why – ” she started. It was all that she could say.

“To put my humors to rights, your grace,” he said, even and soft and devoid of feeling. “They were out of balance. An excess of black bile, and of bad blood.” Maester Helliweg was done with his arm, so Domeric motioned for her to sit in a chair that had been left abandoned next to the pallet. “The leeches suck away the bad blood, all the rage and pain. So my father always said. It seems he was right, as he often is.” She took his hand and found it cold, and in his eyes she saw nothing, nothing, nothing.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. It still wasn’t him. That was Lord Bolton talking.

All the leeches were gone, and Maester Helliweg produced a tin cup and a large bucket. “Ser. It is time for the mustard water.” Domeric sat up and took the cup, scowling into it. “For the black bile,” the maester explained to her.

Domeric pinched his nose and downed the cup, grimacing as he gulped. In a moment he grabbed the bucket and heaved up the contents of his stomach.

There were three more knocks on the door. “Father,” the voice said. It was Cassandra. “I found it. In the kitchens. They had some. The oil of mint.” Ser Mychel rose to meet her. They exchanged a few words and she handed him the vial without entering. Ser Mychel handed it to Maeseter Helliweg, who tipped a few drops into what looked like lemon water. Domeric sipped the lemon water, swished and gargled, and spit into the bucket again.

Lord Redfort cleared his throat. His eyes, mild and pale, flicked once over to Domeric but settled on Sansa. “My lady,” he said. He was the one who’d been speaking when Ser Mychel opened the door. “Pardon me, my lady. I believe you must needs speak to Lady Waynwood.”

***

“That is all you know? Of the Winterfell estates and incomes? It is not very much to work with.” Lady Waynwood was frowning.

“My parents sought to send me south, my lady,” she said. “And I had three brothers.”

“There is always – what happened to House Arryn – ” Lady Waynwood said. “They did not prepare you.”

“No.”

“It cannot be helped, then. There is little I can do but watch.” Lady Waynwood still looked tired. _She is trying to help me_, Sansa knew. _She comes off forceful but that is her way. She is trying to be kind._

“Thank you, Lady Waynwood,” she said. “I know you did not have to help me. I declined your offer. Truly, I am grateful for your generosity, then and now. You did not have to – ”

“It is nothing, dear girl,” Lady Waynwood said. “We are kin. My grandmother Jocelyn was your grandfather Rickard’s aunt. And my mother was her eldest child. She was quite long-lived, my grandmother. A Stark alone in the Vale. She lived with us when I was young. At Ironoaks. After my grandfather passed, she left Runestone. We were very close.”

“I did not know my grandmothers,” she said. Lyarra Stark and Minisa Tully had gone to the birthing bed never to return.

“Most women don’t.” Lady Waynwood looked at the door with a wry smile. Lord Royce was late. “I could have been your grandmother-by-law. I put out an offer to your parents. For my Roland. But many high lords did, and I suppose you were born to be a queen. Your parents rebuffed us all. Still. She told me about the North. How different it is. How wild. Had they accepted – your parents. I would have hoped that you would not have felt alone here. In the Vale. It is very different.”

“It is.”

“You remind me of her, somewhat. Tall and graceful and sad. A grave voice. Serious. And you have the same eyes. Hers were grey and yours are blue, but it’s there. The shape. It’s the same. And they’re sad.” Lady Waynwood took both her thumbs and first fingers and made a square, and held it in front of her face. “Perhaps when you and old and wrinkled and your hair is white, you will look just like she did.” Lady Waynwood sighed. “It is moot, you know. I am not your grandmother, no matter how much I wanted to be. You are wed to the Bolton boy.”

“I am.”

Lady Waynwood’s mouth twitched, and the lines around it deepened. She rubbed her temples. “I suppose he does have a fine reputation. He is well-liked among the young men his age. My Roland and my Harry, they both speak well of him. As well as they can. They do not know him, not closely, not truly. Not like Horton’s sons, or Yohn’s. But by all accounts, he will make a good lord. It could be worse.” She paused. “For any girl of First Men stock, who kept the old gods and whose name was anything but Stark, he would make the finest match.”

Lord Royce entered. Her time with Lady Waynwood was done. He gave them both a tired smile with tired eyes and sat at the head of the table. His bushy brows and whiskers drooped. Lord Royce had been very busy. He unfurled a map of the North and a roll of parchment, the kind that bled into a copy behind. “For the first draft of the contract,” he said. “One for Lord Bolton, and one for us. In case the raven is lost.”

There was noise outside the door. A slap. Voices, hushed and indignant. Lord Redfort. “Now see here. I will defend you and your rights. _I will defend you and your rights._ Do not stray from what we spoke on.” The door opened. Domeric’s cheek was fading red, but his face was placid and cool. Lord Redfort was scowling. They sat on the other side of the table.

Domeric wore a fine pink doublet. Dyed lambswool, stitched with alternating flaying crosses and blood drops. _The cuffs are beautiful_, she thought. _They look like castles. _His face and eyes were still inscrutable.

Lord Royce opened the negotiations. “A standard marriage contract.”

They started with the dowry. Domeric spoke first. “That is too little for a bride so highborn,” Lord Redfort said to Domeric. “You said the wealth of Winterfell was greater than that. Even after all this war, it is too little. Ask for more.”

Tithes and village incomes, and pledges of swords and men. Again Domeric spoke first. _He knows more of Wintefell’s estates than I do. _She supposed that was made sense. _The Boltons always wanted it. They came to know it well. And he was raised to know the North. _“Too little,” Lord Redfort said, again, growing frustrated. “Ask for more.”

The title of Warden of the North. “When my father dies, I shall take it. When I die, my – our. Firstborn. Our firstborn will take it. He will be named Stark.” She agreed with that provision easily.

“Reparations,” Domeric said. Lord Redfort gave an exasperated sigh and rubbed his temples before speaking.

“You would rob your second son to pay your eldest,” Lord Redfort said. “This is madness that you speak. Yohn. Do not write that down. Move onto succession. Your firstborn son will take the name Stark, and will have Winterfell. The Dreadfort – ”

“Walda’s sons can have the Dreadfort.”

Lord Redfort’s face was red. “Excuse me, Yohn. My ladies.” He slapped Domeric again with a crack. It stung her in her heart. “Your second son will have the Dreadfort. Do you want Walder Frey’s get – ”

“Merrett Frey’s get – ” interrupted Lady Waynwood.

“Do you want Merrett Frey’s get to hold the Dreadfort after your father? That craven? You would reward him so? _Stop this_. Stop this _right now_. Your second son will have the Dreadfort.”

“Our second son will have the Dreadfort,” Sansa said. She wanted that provision. Domeric clutched his face and nodded. _How calm he is, even after that._

“Our second son will have the Dreadfort, and will take the name Stark – ”

Lord Redfort pounded his fist on the table. His eyes were no longer mild. “Seven hells, Domeric Bolton! We talked about this! This is not about what your father did. This is about the _future_. About a stable peace. How long has the name of Bolton stood? Gods be good, boy, _you have rights_ – ”

“Horton, if I may. Surely a few villages here and there. In reparation. He wants to give up _something – _look at him,” said Lord Royce. “Domeric. May I ask you. About reparations. Did you mention that with it in mind that Walda’s sons would have the Dreadfort?”

“That is correct, my lord,” Domeric said. He was still very calm, almost eerily so. _Courteous words and a soft voice. _She saw Roose Bolton again. “In the case that my second son will have the Dreadfort, and will take the name Bolton, these villages will serve.” He pointed to the map, at the western edge of the Lonely Hills. “Horton, I believe this is a standard package. Not robbery.”

“Not robbery,” agreed Lord Redfort with a sigh. “You can write that down now, Yohn. Reparations.”

“The Stark succession,” cut in Lady Waynwood. “In the event that Lady Stark passes without issue. The heir presumptive to Winterfell.”

Domeric shut his eyes. In that moment he did not seem calm. He clenched his jaw and took a few deep breaths, and then opened his eyes again. “My lady has a sister – ”

“It’s not her,” Sansa said. “I know it’s not her. They have a pretender.” _The Stark succession. Jon is my brother, but he has taken the black. He would not leave the Watch and risk his honor. The Waynwoods are my next of kin. _“My heir presumptive.”

It took her a few moments to think.

“Wallace,” she said.

***

They sat together at the high table in Lord Royce’s great hall. A feast it was, but without music, without dancing. _How beautiful we all look, _she thought. _How dreadful we all feel._ Domeric was cutting their meat into pieces smaller than even a baby would need. They shared a trencher and a cup of wine. _Rack of lamb, buttered and baked in mint leaves, and sweet Arbor gold. _There was no wedding pie. It was only a convalidation.

Her eyes swept over the feasters. She sat to Domeric’s left, and to her left were the Waynwoods. Ser Wallace, Lady Waynwood, Ser Roland, and Ser Wallace and Ser Roland’s sisters. Further left sat the Royces - Lord Royce, Ser Andar, and his family. To Domeric’s right sat the Redforts – Lord Redfort and his elder sons and their wives, and Ser Mychel, Ysilla, and Cassandra. _Hardly anyone up here is speaking._

At the tables immediately before the dais sat the Hunters, the Belmores, the Templetons, the Freys. Ryella and her children, Ser Walton and his family, Lady Waynwood’s wards. She did not want to look at them, so she looked at Domeric’s hands working at the meat. _It is still him, _she thought. _Those are still his hands, and his hands are still beautiful. _

It did not feel like him when he escorted her from Lord Royce’s solar.

“I think we’re finished here,” Lord Royce had said. He still sounded so _tired, _not his boisterous self_._ He had them all sign their names. Sansa first, then Domeric, then Lord Redfort and Lady Waynwood, and finally himself. “I’ll give this to Helliweg. He’ll send it off with Ryella and Walton’s letters.” Then he’d laughed darkly. “Seven hells, what a gift on a raven’s wing. Old Walder might die of apoplexy.”

Domeric had stood to leave, but Lord Redfort had cleared his throat with another scowl. Her husband had moved to pull out her chair, to offer his arm. She felt him flinch when she took it, if for only an instant. _Fear again, _she knew, though his face had been courteous and still. He’d been so tense as he led her through the keep, underneath the Bronze Kings and their judging eyes. Like a beast backed into a corner. She’d smiled up at him. _He likes to see me smile._ But he’d kept his gaze straight, and he did not see her. He had not spoken to her at all.

“Here, my lady,” Domeric finally said, when he could cut the meat no more. He held the fork out in front of her mouth. She ate it and he offered her more.

“Won’t you be eating?”

“I will not be partaking.”

“But lamb is your favorite.”

“It is,” he said. He was silent for a moment and smiled wistfully. _He is starting to look like himself again._ “Maester Helliweg will give me more mustard water in the morning. I would hate to vomit up my favorite food.” She let him feed her until she was finished, and then she sipped some wine. She offered him the goblet and he refused.

“We are to share a cup, my lord.”

“We are.” His wistful smile returned, and he motioned for a page. Then he seized the goblet, stared into it, and scowled, and he dumped it onto the rushes below. “Hippocras,” he ordered.

They shared a cup of hippocras.

He consented to let her feed him lemoncakes, for lemoncakes were not his favorite.

She heard Lady Waynwood say something to Ser Wallace. He turned to her. “L-l-lady S-s-sansa. Th-th-the b-b-bedding – ”

“Thank you, Wallace,” said a voice. “We will see to the bedding.” It was one of Lord Redfort’s sons, blond and pale-eyed. The tallest one.

“Of c-c-course, S-s-ser J-j-jon,” said Ser Wallace. Ser Jon offered her his arm. Ser Mychel and the man who must have been Ser Creighton rose, and they filed out of Lord Royce’s hall.

Ser Mychel walked in front, and Ser Creighton behind. Only Ser Jon spoke to her. “I am Jon Redfort,” he said. “I am pleased to meet your acquaintance, my lady. I have heard much about you. Well. Not _you_. Not Sansa Stark. But Domeric’s secret lady love.”

“He writes poetry,” she said.

“Yes,” said Ser Jon. “He writes poetry. My brother. Domeric Bolton. My little brother.” He looked at her with mild eyes and a sad mouth. A guilty mouth. “Pardon my offense, my lady, but you had little brothers once?” _I still do, _she thought. _They’re in the heart tree._

“Yes,” she said, and though her throat ached, her voice did not shake. “Bran and Rickon.”

“Yes,” said Ser Jon, again. “I suppose. You are a lady. Your little brothers would not have looked to you to imitate. But did you ever inspire your brothers do anything stupid? Encourage them?”

“No,” she said, at first. _Yes, _she thought. “I – I. Bran. He dreamed of knighthood. I told him to follow his dreams. He also dreamed of climbing the walls of Winterfell.”

“And what happened,” said Ser Jon, “when your brother Bran climbed the walls of Winterfell?”

“He fell and broke his legs. He never walked again.”

“Yes,” said Ser Jon. _He must have heard about it._ “Thankfully with Dom it is not quite that bad. No matter how bad he might think it is. It is not quite that bad.” Ser Jon sighed as Ser Mychel led them round a corner.

“We’re not going to Domeric’s room.”

“He moved,” Ser Jon said. “His things moved. Yours did too, earlier. To the guest keep, where we are.” Ser Jon changed the subject. “Did Cassandra tell you? Cassandra, or Ysilla, I suppose. About how Ysilla and Mychel came to be married.”

“Ser Robar was murdered by Loras Tyrell.”

“And?”

“And you took Lady Ellyn’s maidenhead. You were married the next day.”

“Yes,” said Ser Jon. “We were married the next day. I suppose you were not told what happened after we were married.”

“No, ser,” she said.

“Lord Egen started a row. Demanding restitution. _You stole my daughter, _he said. _I meant her for a high lord’s heir. _He’d saved himself a dowry, but he’d lost himself an alliance. The other goods of marriage. He demanded a bride price.” They started up a set of stairs, and the Bronze Kings looked down from the walls. “My father gave him his bride price. His restitution. One thousand silver stags. _On behalf of House Redfort, I offer my amends. _And the like. House Redfort is old and proud, but I am a third son. Less than a landed knight like Mychel. Ellyn’s life – it will not be what she was bred for. If I am lucky, I will become Jasper’s steward. The captain of the guard. Something like that.” She nodded again. She did not know what to say.

Ser Jon continued. “My father is a hard man. A pious man, and strict. There are some who call him dangerous. I just call him Father. When we returned to the Redfort he put me in the stocks for a fortnight. For shaming our house. He had the servants point and laugh and throw rotten vegetables. He had me flogged, and he had my Ellyn watch. _See the fool you have married, _he said to her. _See what he deserves. _She saw that and yet she still loves me. Puts up with me. My Ellyn. Even though I might just have ruined her life. _I chose you, _she told me. _I do not regret my choice.” _ Ser Jon sighed. “_I _do not regret _my_ choice. To run away with my lady love.” They were in a corridor in the guest keep. Still the Bronze Kings looked on. “It is not quite the same with Domeric. With Dom. The whole North, you both shall have. And the way I hear it, Father was quite lenient with him. It is just as well. He needed it. My little brother has a gentle heart.” Ser Jon turned to look at her, and his pale eyes shone with tears that did not fall. “You are Domeric’s lady love,” he said. “I hope you do not let him regret his choice.”

“I love him – ” she started, but Ser Jon interrupted her.

“Tell him that.”

Ser Mychel spoke. “We are here, my lady.” She bid Ser Creighton and Ser Jon goodbye, but Ser Mychel stayed and followed her inside. There was a four-poster bed and a desk and a harp, and a table covered with sweets and cheeses. A wardrobe and a few chairs. A hearth burning low. Near the entrance was an empty tub and a dressing screen.

“You ought disrobe over there, my lady,” said Ser Mychel, pointing. She obeyed and began. “Please be kind to him,” said Ser Mychel’s shadow. “He is my dearest friend. My brother.” He paused. “I do not think that you want to,” he said. “And I do not think that you will. But you can hurt him very much.”

“I would never – ” she started.

“I know that, my lady,” Ser Mychel said. “Good night,” he started, and he made to leave.

“Wait,” she said. “The laces. I can’t – ”

“Of course. I remember. That is Ysilla’s gown.” Ser Mychel undid the knot and loosened the laces to get her started. “Good night, my lady.” Then his shadow retreated, and disappeared behind the click of the door. 

She made herself naked and left off the night shift. _He still wants me, I think. _She’d seen. She went to the bed and sat atop the covers and hugged herself, around her knees for comfort. _We Starks were made for the cold. _The low-burning fire was enough.

She waited.

“We love you, Domeric,” said the muffled voice of Jessamyn Redfort, from the other side of the door. _He’s here, _Sansa realized. She smoothed out her hair, stretched out her legs, folded her hands in her lap, and lay back against the pillows.

“She does not blame you,” Cassandra said. “Not for what he did. Ysilla told me so. Do not be afraid. Lady Sansa is kind. She will forgive you. She loves you.” Silence for a moment. “We love you, Domeric.”

“Good night,” the Redfort sisters said. The door clicked open.

Their eyes met for a moment, but then he looked away, and down. He passed by the dressing screen, walked to the wardrobe and opened it. He carried a red dressing gown when he came to meet her, but he was still looking down. “Your grace,” he said, holding it out to her, and it trembled in his hand. “Here.”

“Would you help me, my lord?” _He touched me so kindly. Before._

“Only if that is what you want, your grace.”

“It is.” His hands stopped shaking, but they were stiff, and they took care not to touch her skin even as she leaned to him. He walked to the hearth and started poking until the fire roared. He did not turn around when he started speaking.

“Your grace,” he said. “I do not have the words. To express. How sorry I am. For everything. Now. You are trapped. With me.” He turned a log with the poker. “It. Does not. Have to be that way. If. There is no child. When we go back North. I can. Ride away in the night. For the Wall.”

She felt cold. “The Wall? Why?” It was like those first days. Him talking about the Wall. No – it was not like the first days. It was so much worse. Her throat ached. _He does not want me, he does not love me, he wants to go._

“So,” he started. “So you can fight this,” he said. “This crime against the gods. And against House Stark.” He seemed to find his voice again. “I do not know who talked you into this. To bend the knee. Perhaps it was Bronze Yohn. I left the bloody sheet with him. I did not get the chance to speak with him, but perhaps he understood. He is preoccupied with Baelish. Peace among his coalition suits him.” _All of that is wrong_. _Lord Royce wanted to help me. _“Lady Anya, what she offered. What she offered you was generous. These crimes, they require punishment. Your grace, if it is I that stands in your way. That stops you from fighting this. I would step aside. There is honor in the Watch. They take no part. And it is a just punishment for what I did. My slights against your honor. Your grace, I swear, if you want to fight I would not stop you, I would not _tell _him. _Them_. Ser Roland, he is good, I know that he is good – the bird has flown but your cause can still be salvaged – ”

_Lord Redfort was right. _He deserved a slap but she could not muster one from her heart. _Be kind, _Ser Mychel had said. “Is that what you want? To join the Watch?”

He took his time before speaking. “If there is no child it is what would be best.” _He did not say no, but he did not say yes, either._

“And if there is a child?”

“I would raise her. Him. The child. I would be a good father,” he said. “I would keep this _peace_.” The word came out bitter on his tongue. _I do not understand. He wanted to bend the knee._

“What of me?” It was all that she could ask. _Would you be a good husband? Do you not love me anymore? Why are you so cold to me? Why do you flinch away from me?_

He was silent a while again, poking the fire as he thought. “My mother was wed to a man she hated.” He poked the fire some more. “I would not trap you as she was trapped, your grace. I would not – ” but then he stopped, or else he spoke too softly. “I would not.”

_He thinks I hate him, _she realized. It made sense now. What Ser Mychel said, and Ser Jon. _I’m sorry_, he’d said_. _Before he kissed her. _No, _she wanted to say to him. _No, no, not at all. It wasn’t your fault. _“My lord,” she said. “Turn around.”

He put the poker down and brought a hand to his face. She heard him take ten deep breaths before he turned. He wore the mask again. “My lord,” she said. “Come closer.” He crossed the room to meet her. His face was dry but his eyes were red. His jaw was clenching and he could no longer hide his anguished frown.

It near on broke her heart. She scooted forward and wound her arms around his neck, and felt him flinch and tense. She was hurting but she smiled. “I do not hate you. I could not hate you. I love you,” she said, and then she kissed his mouth. _It’s not your fault, _she wanted to say to him. _My lord, please let me in. _She saw his eyes widen and close, and as he opened himself to her she felt the stiffness leave his frame. He bunched his fingers in her hair and brought it forward, and then he broke away, pressing his face against the side of her head and breathing in deep.

“Why,” he asked her. “Why.” She put her hands on his shoulders and made him look at her, and she smiled at him once more.

“Because you are good. Kind and brave. A true knight. You sing and you play music and you care about everyone. And you saved me. You’re my hero. My knight from the songs. You saved me from the Lannisters and we rode into the sunset together. I asked you to marry me and I chose to go with you. Did you forget all that?”

“No,” he said. It seemed he had.

“You are my knight and I am your lady,” she said. He nodded, and then he took her hand and put it over his heart, and then he laced his hand through hers.

“I am your knight and you are my lady,” he said. “My lady love. My queen.” She lay her head on his shoulder. _I love you. _She hoped he could feel it beating in her heart. _I love you._

They sat like that a few long moments. “You want to fight,” she said.

“I do.”

“We cannot win.”

“Most like not. We do not have the odds in our favor. We only have the gods.”

She was too tired for this discussion. “I would not ask you to fight your family. To be a kinslayer.” He did not answer her. _A Queen must have resolve, even if only Queen for a day. _“We will go home soon.”

“Aye.”

She didn’t want to forget. “It was not your fault. You had no part. You tried to tell us about your father. The Freys. We should have listened.”

He tensed again. “They would not have known without my letters – ”

“Your letters went to Harrenhal and Riverrun. Robb did not get them. Your father did not get them. They were already riding to the Twins.”

“Riverrun,” he said. After a moment he began to frown. “It should have reached the Blackfish. He was not at the Twins. They would have killed him, or the Frey septon would have mentioned him. And. It happened – because. Your brother’s queen. Jeyne Westerling. They did not mention her. The Freys – I think. I think they would have liked to kill her.” He paused. “Jeyne Westerling was at Riverrun,” he said. “I’m sorry, Sansa. Lord Tywin – my father. My family – your mother – ”

“We both sent letters to Riverrun.” _To Cersei Lannsiter, with brown hair. _“The Westerlings must have told Lord Tywin. And – and he must have sent the Freys a pretender. Some girl to play-act as my sister. It’s why they killed my mother – ”

“They did not need to kill your mother,” Domeric said. His frown had grown very deep. “Highborn ladies. You’re not supposed to kill them. They’re hostages. Old Walder – he is always looking for more brides. They could have kept her prisoner, they could have stopped them from seeing each other. Your mother and the girl. It would have been easy. No. It was my family. My aunt, and my grandfather. They always hated her. They must have… I’m sorry. Sansa. I’m so sorry – ”

The tension was back. The anger. _Don’t blame yourself, _she wanted to tell him. _It’s not your fault. _But he always believed things were his fault. She took a different tack.

“I – the Queen. Queen Cersei. I trusted her. I used to. My father wanted to leave the city. With Arya and me. I – I loved King’s Landing. I didn’t want to leave. I told her about what my father was planning. It’s all _my_ fault, you see. Father and Arya are gone. The war – Bran and Rickon and Robb and Mother – Ser Helman and all those Northmen – it’s all _my_ fault – ”

She’d never told anyone before. Her words tumbled out, quick and desperate. She was relieved when he interrupted her.

“No it’s not,” he said. He was not frowning anymore. The redness was fading from his eyes. They studied her now. “You were a little girl.” Then he sighed – no, _yawned_. “That’s enough for tonight, I think. This day has been long and trying, and I am very tired. My lady wife. I would like to go to bed.”

He reached for the collar of his doublet, for the button at his throat. She stopped his hand. “I will do it,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said, and for the first time that day his smile was neither sinister nor sad. “I love you,” he said.

They were silent after that, and lay down together in the quiet dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not start out at 7.7K words. It ended as 7.7K words because I wanted to do some more Faith of the Seven worldbuilding, and Lady Waynwood and Jon Redfort instisted on speaking. I don't think it detracts from the pacing but if you think so please let me know. Also I do appreciate concrit so if in general you think I'm struggling with it or doing particularly poorly with anything else please give me a shout (preferably in Oxbridge debate style tone rather than... idk, 4chan anon tone).
> 
> One thing I didn't get to do in life was write my own wedding vows. I had a very traditional by the book wedding and they were set in stone. After a certain age you end up attending a lot of weddings so you end up with lots of inspiration. So I played with it a little here. We have from GRRM that Faith of the Seven weddings have seven vows (+seven prayers, seven readings, seven hymns), and whether that is seven each for the bride and the groom or seven altogether is unclear. Let me know what you think of these and if they sound in-world and consistent. (Also: sorry to anyone whose wedding got postponed this year due to the crown shaped plague. It happened to a few of my friends and it... really sucks.)
> 
> I did do some research into ancient greek medicine/humorism for this chapter and I decided to ignore it. Apparently many non food-based treatments for an excess of black bile are diuretics and carmatives, not emetics. Look, I didn't want to write about Domeric taking laxatives or things to make him pass gas. You didn't want to read about Domeric taking laxatives or things to make him pass gas. Sansa wouldn't have wanted to watch that (she would have watched because she's a trooper, if the Maester let her). So: Artistic License - Biology is at play here and I am 100% aware of it.
> 
> An excess of black bile is also known as 'melancholia'. Thankfully the Redforts' traveling party was there to find Domeric stumbling around in the woods after his mental breakdown. He really needed a hug and multiple people to go "bro are you ok" before talking things out.
> 
> In the end, leeching is just a medical procedure. In the end, it is better to be a teetotaler if you are prone to dysregulated behavior while drunk. In the end... we all become our parents, eventually. In some way. It's part of growing up. When you have that first "I sound like my mom" and "did I just do that, it's a dad thing" moment you get pretty shocked esp if your relationship with your parents is complicated. If you had emulation worthy parents... good for you. All parents should strive to be worthy of emulation, but most fail, because they're human.
> 
> Stay safe out there everyone and thanks to all our garbage collectors delivery drivers grocery store workers emergency responders and medical personnel.
> 
> Next chapter will be up May 7/May 8.


	39. Sansa XV

She woke up with his arm heavy over her shoulder and his chest hot against her back.

“You’re awake,” she said. She’d felt his breathing warm on her neck, even and deep but too quick and shallow for sleep.

“Aye. I have been.” It was the hour of the wolf, or nearabouts, from the silver moonlight streaming through the window. It would be a while yet before the bells started to ring. The downy featherbed sagged under her palm when she braced against it and made to roll over, to face him. _Wet,_ she realized. Then she looked. _Red. _

“Oh,” she whispered. Her breath caught in her throat before she could speak again. “I’m sorry.” _There was no child. _The thought weighed heavy in her heart, and as she breathed in the air filled her chest with grey. For a fleeting moment she recalled what he’d said the night before, but then he opened his mouth.

“You’ve naught to be sorry for.” He looked at her, and then at the bed, and gave a clipped breath out, and she wondered if his heart was heavy with disappointment too. She watched the corners of his mouth twitch downward for a moment, but then she saw the shadows ringing the sockets of his skull.

“You slept poorly.”

“Aye.” He set his gaze at the door, drew the furs around himself, and sat up. Her hair felt a matted tangle, but his remained as sleek and shiny as silk. “As I am wont to. It can’t be helped.” She heard him slide his feet into his boots with a shuffle and step over to the wardrobe with quiet, echoing clicks. He came back with a clean shift for her and new linens, breeches, and hose for himself.

“Here.” There was a washbasin full of water on a side table. The cool stone against her feet set vigor running through her veins, and the water rolling over her skin seeped ease into her heart. She was cold and clean and well.

The servants had placed a trunk of her things by the wall. The trunk at the foot of the bed held Domeric’s. She grabbed her smallclothes and some rags and pulled the soft wool shift down over her head.

“I would brush your hair again,” Domeric said. Like in his other chambers there was a dressing table and a Myrish glass. Something in his bearing seemed subdued today, beyond his tired eyes. It was in his smile and in his voice. His whole affect was muted.

“Of course, my lord,” she said, and then she smiled at him. A tint of color returned to his face. His hands were deft, and he worked without provoking pain and snagging the tangles. Warmth rose in her belly and grew until it escaped her mouth in a hum. “You’re better at that than my mother was – when she brushed my hair, sometimes it would hurt…”

Then she bit her lip. _Mother will never brush my hair again. _Suddenly snags and tangles did not seem so bad.

In the Myrish glass she watched the little color left in his face drain away. _I’m sorry, my lord. I shouldn’t have mentioned Mother at all._

“You said you would be seeing Maester Helliweg this morning. For the mustard water.”

“Aye. And the leeching.”

“Ought I come with you?”

He finished brushing her hair. “If you would not object. Your presence would be welcome. The Redforts will not be there this morning.” He frowned at that, so she smiled at him again.

“Then I shall come with you.” But he was still frowning. “What of the rest of the day? What shall I – what shall we do?”

Domeric quirked up an eyebrow ever so slightly. “After we’re done with the maester we’ll break our fast. Then I’ll be off to the yard. One of these days, Ser Sam will have us jousting. If you like, you could come watch.”

She nodded. “Will I still be having lessons with Maester Helliweg?”

“It might be.” He stared at her through the Myrish glass. She turned around to face him, and his lips were pressed into a thin line. “We ought make plans to begin returning home. I suppose now we’ll have to attend your aunt’s wedding. Bend the knee there, or at the Gates of the Moon, if she prefers. By sea would be faster, but the land route I prefer. Even if Lord Royce lent us men. I am not welcome in White Harbor. Not after Ser Wendel. We could sail to the mouth of the Weeping Water, but the shores there are rocky, and the ports few and small. Fishing villages. I do not know whether Lord Royce’s captains could find them without hugging the coast and stopping in White Harbor anyway.” Then he sighed. “I hate to say it, but the safest path might be the High Road. But we’d have to beg for men.”

She nodded and he frowned in apology. “My lady, I am sorry. You asked about today. We’ll make plans with Lord Royce later.” He opened the wardrobe and motioned with his hand, as if to ask if she wanted help. She nodded. He picked the blue gown, the one she wore the day they did not see each other. “We’ll ask Maester Helliweg about your lessons. I see no reason why you ought not continue, at least until we leave here. There will be time for you to sew with the ladies. We’ll go to the godswood in the evening. Have supper.” Then his smile returned. “Perhaps we’ll have a bath. After noon.”

“We’ll go to the sept at noontime instead of this morning?” He tugged her laces tight and stopped his work abruptly. She could not see his face but she could imagine his lip curling. Then his grip loosened and he resumed tying her into her gown, and he spun her around, studying her face.

“I know you keep the new gods because your mother did,” he started slowly, “but I do not think the Northmen would take it kindly. If their liege lady kept the Seven. Much less their queen.” _He_ did not take it kindly, she could see.

“You would have me stop going to the sept?” _He likes the rite of the Seven. He likes the prayers and the music. He told me so. I don’t understand._

He pursed his lips. “Perhaps not while we are in the Vale. But when we are among Northerners again I would.”

“Even when we are back in Winterfell? With my mother’s sept and septon?”

Gentle pity replaced any acrimony in his face. “They killed your mother’s septon, my lady. They burned your mother’s sept. My bastard brother said so.” _They. Theon Greyjoy. _Her bitterness must have been plain on her face, for he put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed. “It is important,” he said, “for you to do things. That keep alive your mother’s memory. I promise you, we can rebuild it. For your mother. So you can be with her. I would not – I would not stop you from praying privately. But to the Northmen – you must be a Northerner.” He seemed to chew on his words before speaking again. “It was thought that – that you were the most like Lady Catelyn. The most southron. That you were of the south and for the south. That must not be so.”

“I understand.”

“Very good.” With grave, curious eyes he studied her, as if he thought she were a bird, about to peck out his eye or dart up into the air, either one at any moment. _I’m not any different,_ she wanted to tell him. _I want things to be the same. Like before. Before you were cold to me. Before we arrived at Runestone._

“You have not kissed me yet, ser,” she said, giving a mummer’s pout. “You kissed me awake the morning before last, and every morning when we sailed from Duskendale. I would have a kiss from you, ser, and one before we leave this room.”

“Is that so?” The color was returning to his face, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “As my lady commands, then.” He kissed her soundly, and when he pulled away, his serious countenance had given way to a smile. “Come now, then. I have an appointment with the maester.”

After that morning there would be no more mustard water. “All of the black bile should have been purged by now. Starting tomorrow, you will be taking tea of cumin, coriander, and fennel seed with every meal.” Maester Helliweg handed her a jar full of the stuff while Domeric washed out his mouth.

“Thank the gods,” he said. “I hated that.” They made for the kitchens and found some sausages, bread, and cheese to break their fast on. “And the tea too,” she said to a scullery maid.

The hall was empty when they ate together, for most of Runsestone was still at the sept. He slung his arm around her shoulder and sat so close that it was almost like they were back at the Seven Swords in Duskendale.

“’Tis not very proper of you, ser,” she japed.

“I suppose not,” he said. He veritably attacked his food, and yet he managed to scarf it all down with all the grace of a preening cat. She took her time with her meal and listened to him talk.

“This afternoon, when you go and sew with the ladies,” he said, after a swallow, “I think I shall go to the library. Borrow some books. I think I should like you to read to me. The next time. My leeching.”

“Then I shall read to you.”

She sat next to the Redfort sisters and Ysilla in the gallery above the yard. Whatever quarrel had existed between Cassie and Ysilla from the days prior had been mended. “Good morning,” they said to her.

“Good morning.” All the Vale ladies were bundled up tight in their cloaks and their pelts and their moehair blankets, but Sansa made do. The air was bracing.

“There’ll be jousting later,” Ysilla said. “I heard Mychel talking to Ser Sam on the way out of the sept.”

“Oh?” said Jessie. “We’re in for a show, then.” She smiled softly. “Or, you are, Lady Sansa.”

Ser Alec and Ser Jon went first. It took three tilts but Ser Jon unhorsed his goodbrother of Hunter. “What do I owe you, Ellyn?”

Lady Ellyn was a pretty, sloe-eyed girl with a square jaw and honey-blonde hair. She spoke with a soft voice. “Nothing – ”

“A necklace,” said Jessie. “I’ll get you a necklace in Gulltown.”

Ser Mychel unhorsed Ser Roland, and Harrold Hardyng unhorsed Ser Wallace. “You’re supposed to _clap_ for Harrold, _Cassandra_ – ” Jessie said. “You’re supposed to wave your handkerchief.”

“That’s what Father wants,” Cassie said. “It might not go through. I told you, now I’m free to be a septa – ”

“Look, Sansa,” Ysilla said. “There’s Domeric.” He stood at the end of the field in dull training armor, but it was him, and his red horse, Rhaegar. He donned his helmet and mounted up. She couldn’t tell who his opponent was.

“There’s our brother Creighton,” Cassie said. “His horse is the black and white.”

Ser Sam shouted for the start. The knights burst toward each other, and the horses kicked up hazy dust clouds in their wake. In an instant it was over. With a crack and a dull thud Domeric had grounded Ser Creighton. The fallen knight sprung to his feet, and Domeric dismounted. They clapped each other on the back, and Sansa rose to her feet to wave her handkerchief and give her lord his lauds. Even from far away and high above she could see his smile.

“It’s always been that way,” Cassie said. “Since, what, he was three-and ten?”

“Three-and-ten or four-and-ten,” said Jessie.

“And Creighton’s six years older. Amazing, it is. Watching Dom joust. He won every squire’s tourney he rode in, as Father told it.”

_I should have liked to have seen it,_ Sansa thought. There were never any squire’s tourneys in the North. There weren’t any tourneys at all. _But perhaps there will be now. _

After that, it was noon, and she went to the sept. Domeric came with her, and they sat in the back pew, he on the Father’s side, she on the Mother’s. He still reeked of horse and sweat when he met her to make their way across the wards. “We’ll have our bath afterwards. I had our midday meal sent up.” Though she’d made great strides in Old Andalosian in her work with Maester Helliweg she found herself hard pressed to follow Septon Lucos and his chanting. Her eyes kept on wandering to Domeric, his pale complexion resplendent beneath the noonday rainbows. _My lord is smiling at me again. His spirits have returned._ It made her heart glad.

If she had a sunny disposition when she arrived at Ysilla’s workshop, no one mentioned it. She shared a secret smile with Randa when the older girl quirked up her eyebrow, but beyond that, she spoke in even tones. It seemed that every lady the Royces hosted wanted to give her their condolences. The pity was plain on Lady Anya’s daughters’ faces. She thanked them each politely and kept her attention on the cousins of Royce and the Redfort sisters. _They at least do not pity me_. _Not for marrying the man I love. _

“There was another bird from Septon Vortimer,” Cassie commented. “He thinks it shall be Septon Ollidor, the new High Septon.”

“Not Septon Luceon?” Jessie was embroidering white arrows on a brown doublet.

“No. There is – ” and here Cassie grimaced into the rainbow stitching on her sampler – “there is a new, erm, _group_. A faction. From the Riverlands. They’re eating into Septon Luceon’s vote. They call themselves the _sparrows, _but heretics are what they are. They follow an itinerant called _Hornfoot_, or _blackfoot_, or what have you, and he goes around twisting the words of the Seven-Pointed Star – ”

“And they’re cutting into Septon Luceon’s vote?”

“That’s what Septon Vortimer says.”

At suppertime they ate with the Redforts too. When she and Domeric sat down together Ser Jon gave her a bright smile. They were a cheery bunch, the Redfort family. It was easy to see why Domeric loved them so. “I heard young Ser Bolton knocked you clean again,” said Ser Creighton’s wife, Lady Marsella, once of House Melcom of Old Anchor, in between spoons of thin soup. Like her husband, she had curly straw-colored hair, rosy cheeks, and a genial smile.

Ser Creighton gave a hearty guffaw. “And I say, no shame there!”

Domeric and Lord Horton were speaking softly to each other. Lord Horton motioned with his hand, as if to swat away a fly. “Boy. Boy. Fret not. You’ll have as many men as you need to see you down the High Road. From all of us. Once we’re done with Baelish.”

“And when will that be?”

“In good time.” She saw Lord Horton narrow his eyes. “It would do you good to stay here a while. In the Vale. Write to your grandfather, Domeric. Your aunt. Tell them your plans.”

Domeric looked at her then, and he must have seen her surprise. “My lady wife was expecting a swift return home.”

“There is a war on and you depend on charity.”

“Bronze Yohn and Lady Anya – ”

“Offered men contingent on swiftly taking the field_. _Striking while the iron was hot. Now Lady Stark will be bending the knee there is no need for haste.”

Whatever good humor Domeric was in after their bath had withered away by the time supper was done with. They passed into and out of the godswood in perfect silence, and the whole while there his mood only blackened. When they were done praying Sansa couldn’t wait to be back in their chambers. True to his word he had taken a trip to the library, and he’d brought back a stack of books about the First Men, the Children of the Forest, and the time before the coming of the Andals. After he barred the door and took off his cloak, and he made for the desk and lit a candle.

“Would you like me to read to you?” she asked.

He mustered up a wry smile. “No, thank you,” he said. “I’m going to write a letter.”

For near on an hour he sat at the desk, at times hunching forward until his nose nearly smudged the ink, at others slumped back in his chair, head lolling back, the quill dancing between his twiddling fingers. He wrote out his message with deliberate care, only one or two words every long while. After that he scowled, crumpled the parchment in his fist, and held it over the candle flame. Then he started on another parchment, this time letting the words spill from his hand like out of a toppled inkwell. That letter he read, scratched out lines and lines and lines, and finally burned once more.

“If we’re to be here a while, they can wait a while to hear from me,” he muttered, and he was still scowling.

She pressed herself close to him and bunched her hands in the soft linen of his shirt until he was breathing easy. “They can,” she said, though she was not sure it was best. They still hadn’t talked about his family. The Ryswells and Lady Dustin. _He thinks they killed Mother. _But it was late now. There would be time tomorrow.

The next few days passed much like the last. In the morning when she woke, he always had those dark circles under his eyes. She still had lessons with Maester Helliweg, but immediately after Domeric was leeched in the mornings, and only every other day. She stayed in Maester Helliweg’s turret while he went onto the yard, and she received extra attention, since little Yohnnie and Lord Royce’s wards went off with the men. On the other days she sat in the gallery and watched Domeric train with the knights. Afterward, they went to the sept at noon with the scullery servants and took their midday meal together in their chambers, and parted ways an hour or two after that, she to Ysilla’s solar.

“Where do you go, when I leave you to join the ladies?” she asked while they were abed one night.

“Sometimes I stay here,” he said. “Or go to the library. Sit with Lord Horton. Oft I play Cyvasse with Mychel and Jon.”

Each evening they prayed in the godswood, and each time they passed the Runestone, he would linger, and trace the torchlit runes with his first finger. His lips would move and his brow would furrow, as if he were sounding out the words. When he caught her watching curiously he explained. “I’m trying to read the Old Tongue.”

That night he was finally able to finish the letter he’d been agonizing over. “To Robert and Roose at the Twins,” he said. “They will – they will tell me. They will have heard – why. But they would not have taken part...” With a frown he sealed the parchment with white wax and stamped it with a grinning skull cloak pin. “_They_ can tell Grandfather and Aunt Barbrey.”

“My lord – you truly believe they had my mother killed?”

“I do.” Like his father, his mother’s family had become another subject he did not like to talk about.

In the night there was a bird from the Sept of Baelor, and in the morning they woke to three sharp raps on the door. “Come quickly,” the voice said. _Ser Jon_, Sansa knew. “Come quickly. To the great hall. There are urgent tidings – ”

Domeric debarred the door and swung it open in only his linen shirt and a scowl on his face. “Jon, you know I am to see the maester – ”

“The maester is in the hall. There’s to be a meeting before the bells ring. Come quickly!” Jon left to knock on more doors, and they dressed with haste.

Lord Royce sat in his high seat, but it was Lord Redfort who called the meeting, and his lined and whiskered face twinkled with his barely concealed smile. Septon Lucos and Septa Hippolane sat to his left and right, and as the high lords and knights and ladies poured trough the rune-carved doors, the hall came alive with sound.

Lord Redfort stood, and the whispers died. “My lords,” he said. “My ladies. Good sers. My friends! Out of the darkness and borne on the wings of a raven black, the dawn has come with tidings many, fair and foul. We’ll start with the fair! The boy Joffrey is dead! The old lion is dead! The Queen of Thorns and the Knight of Flowers, dead!”

A gasp went up, and then a cheer, and the cacophony of many voices. Sansa’s eyes widened and she felt her grin strain her cheeks. _“Joffrey is dead,” _she whispered. She tugged on Domeric’s arm. _“Joffrey is dead!” _She felt like jumping but restrained her joy. _I loved Ser Loras once, even for a little while. And Lady Olenna tried to help me in her way, even if it was only for Winterfell._

“The gods are just,” came his hollow voice, but whatever he said next was drowned out by the raucous crowd.

“Justice for Lord Jon!” a voice cried. “For Ned Stark!” shouted someone else. “For good Ser Robar!” Out of the corner of her eye Sansa caught Cassandra and Ysilla hugging each other, and Lord Royce covering his mouth with a weathered hand. Then Lord Royce’s gaze settled on Lord Redfort again, and he banged his fist on the table.

“Let the man speak!” He boomed. “Horton! Read the letter.” Once again, the hall fell silent.

Lord Redfort cleared his throat. “This letter is from Vortimer, who as some of you will remember, was until this year past was the septon at my keep. _‘My lord,’ _he said.” Lord Redfort scanned the letter as if to find the parts he should not say aloud. “‘_From the Sept of Baelor I write to you, though with all haste we pack and make ourselves ready to fly to the docks with all the arms the Faith can muster. This city has been gripped by madness, the souls of men possessed by demons from the lowest of the Seven Hells. Lord Horton, you know me. I would not say such a thing so lightly. I tell you: the rabble in this city, the smallfolk in the streets – the spirit of a demon has descended upon them, and he calls himself the High Sparrow. _

_“‘It started with his election to the Office of the High Septon, if what happened in this holy sept can be called an election. By their fruits ye shall know them, so Hugor says, and by this fruit, so say I, that man has the spirit of a demon. His sparrows descended upon our council chambers beneath this sanctuary and mobbed us while at our deliberation. The Mother is merciful that I am young and hearty and hale, that I was able to protect Septon Luceon with this body of mine. But others were not so lucky. Septon Ollidor, may the gods rest his soul. Old Septa Gildyanne, may the gods rest hers. At least thirteen others of the Most Devout, killed or maimed or otherwise placed in the gods’ hands. If there ever was a more unholy number, I will retrace my Oldtown education step by step. Horton, my lord, I tell you: as the gods are my witness, this election must be called invalid by all the canons of the Faith. It is null and void. The man they call the High Sparrow is not the gods’ own voice on earth._

_“‘That was the first day of the trial. The day they elected him. If I was remiss in not writing to you sooner, this is why. The day after, the second day, there was a procession in the city, to proclaim our new High Sparrow. Preparations were made in all haste, with all the efforts of the Most Devout aimed at organizing the event – of gathering up the Faith’s remaining treasures to distribute to the poor. Fie, for what a sham that procession was. No palanquin, hardly any nobility – for they were all preparing for the King’s wedding the next day – just the High Sparrow in his roughspun shirt walking barefoot with his sparrows behind him. No guards, no banners, no incense, no livery. No godsworn and no singing. He does not give the gods their due, or honor them in the forms they love, as Hugor taught us to. In his address to the people of the city he waxed eloquent on mortification and almsgiving, but he speaks naught of sacrifice, or of the gods’ glory, of the forms of life as Hugor taught us how to live. I tell you: that man is a heretic and he perverts Hugor’s words to simple ears._

_“‘That was the second day. The third day, this morning, was the King’s wedding. O, my lord, what a wretched morning. When the royal party came down from the Red Keep on the way to the Great Sept of Baelor, oh, woe, woe. The sparrows rule this city, not the Iron Throne. They descended upon His Grace and his noble family in the square, beneath the statue of Baelor himself. The Kingsguard saved the Queen Mother, but it was too late for the king. We found his head after the riot, and the Lord Hand Tywin’s too. In the evening a rider in King Tommen’s name confirmed Lord Tyrion as Hand of the King and bid us return their bones._

_“‘The next party to arrive was the bride’s. O, my lord, what a tale. They pulled the Lady Margaery from atop her horse and the Knight of Flowers cut his way to her. We all know his reputation but there was no denying his courage. On his own steed he bore her back to the Red Keep, and then he rode back into the fray, and he defended the fallen form of the Lord Mace until the gallant Ser Garlan could bring their father away. Alas, for he could not save his grandmother – it seemed the Lady Olenna was killed by a fall. We found her corpse picked clean of clothes and gems after the riot. As for Ser Loras, once he went down to search for her he was consumed by the crowd. Truly, the spirit of the Warrior lived in that one._

_“‘As for other noble casualties we have heard there were none. The Baratheon and Lannister and Tyrell parties were at the fore of the column. The gold cloaks were able to separate the crowd, and the knights of the Vale and of Dorne spared the Arryn and Martell parties from all harm. The gods have smiled on our Lord Robert and his lady mother. The Mother is merciful._

_“‘I write to you on the night of the third day, or early in the morning of the fourth. I expect this letter shall take two days to reach you, and nine days after that, the _Seven’s Glory _shall dock at Gulltown. Forty-nine of the Most Devout shall board that vessel, if all goes according to plan. Seven times seven, a holy number. With our quorum we have elected the man who was born Luceon our new High Septon. I expect we shall arrive soon after Lord and Lady Arryn and the Lord Baelish do. It was said they escaped to the docks before the rest. My lord, I beg you, the lords of the Vale shall gather for the Gulltown wedding. It is the perfect opportunity to call a new council, a public one, such as has not been called since before the dragons came. My lord, I beg you, prepare the way for us and make this message heard._

_“‘By my hand, your friend and servant, Septon Vortimer, Order of the Crone’s Lantern, Third Representative from the Vale of Arryn to the Council of the Most Devout._’”

After Lord Redfort finished speaking all that could be heard was the rustling of the rushes underfoot.

It was Lord Royce who spoke first. “Gods be good, Horton. Gods be good.” His face was grim, as was his voice. “Nine days, he said?”

“Nine days.” The cacophony of voices roared to life again, and she looked at Domeric next to her. His brow was furrowed and his jaw was clenching, and he did not speak. _Joffrey’s dead. Lord Tywin is dead. The Crown will break without Lord Tywin. The game has changed._

She clutched his arm and looked up at him. She hoped he saw it in her eyes. _My lord, I want to fight too._

“Baelish _must_ know. Without the Lannisters and the Iron Throne he _cannot_ rule the Vale, our liege lady’s husband or no. He has no _true power. _He must _fold – ”_

“Yohn. He has _coin_,” Lady Waynwood said, her face pinched. “He has _Gulltown._ He who controls Gulltown can bring the Vale to its knees. Snake’s Den and Wickenden and Heart’s Home – all of them are _vulnerable_ – ”

“_Ironoaks _is vulnerable, Anya, and yet _you are here – _”

“There is mettle in me yet, but it is not so with all…” On the dais the high lords had words. Domeric sat down and covered his mouth, drumming his fingers on the trestle table.

_“Your grace – ” _It was not Domeric who spoke first.

“Ser Steffon,” she said. There was fire in his grey gaze and pleading hope in his voice.

“These tidings, your grace - you would still bend the knee?” Ser Steffon’s eyes were on her, but it was to Domeric she looked. He followed her line of sight, and found her husband’s face cold and hard and silencing. “My lord. Lord Protector. This stain on your name, and on mine. By our deeds we may blot them out. Now we must – ”

“What must we do, Ser Steffon? I am only a guest, and you a household knight. I must do as my host allows, and you, your liege lady bids.” Once again Domeric’s face was inscrutable. _No, not inscrutable, not quite. _His jaw was clenching again. _He has not had his leeching this morning._ “Our hosts and your liege lady are preoccupied with Baelish. _Strike while the iron is hot_, they said. The corpse of the Young Wolf has cooled, while the boy Joffrey’s is still fresh. Littlefinger docks in nine days, but the Twins are not about to move.”

“The hosts of the Twins may yet march on Winterfell – ”

“Not while the Ironmen hold the Moat.”

“Balon Greyjoy is dead – ”

“And his kin yet live.”

Ser Steffon grew irate, and so did she. _I thought you wanted to fight, my lord, and yet here you are gainsaying the first sword I would have. _“My cause has not died,” she said. “I would not have you kill it, ser.”

“Of course, your grace,” Ser Steffon said. “My lord – ”

“I do not seek to stamp out your cause, _your grace_,” her husband said softly. She could see a vein pulsing at his temple. “I merely counsel caution. I advise you on your limits. We are at the mercy of Bronze Yohn and Lady Anya. Of Lord Horton, Ser Symond, Lord Hunter, Lord Belmore. What men have you, Ser Frey? What swords have I, but mine own? Until Baelish is gone our hands are tied. I could not use them if I wanted to.” Then he twisted his face in a half-grin, half-grimace at once sinister and serene. “The odds tip in your favor, your grace. The gods are on your side. Let us make them a gift so that they might bring Baelish to a swift end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a mob can kill a dragon, they can kill Tywin Lannister and Olenna Tyrell. Never underestimate the power of the mob. No Sansa = no hairnet = no Purple Wedding as it was. However, the sparrow movement and the 'assassinate Joffrey' plot were independent events.
> 
> The stuff with the High Sparrow in the books always seemed pretty superficial to me. First, the sparrows broke into the council of the most devout and forced the election. IRL that wouldn't fly. That is just begging for an antipope (anti-septon?) and a schism. For every radical revolutionary movement there is a counter-revolutionary reaction of some intensity. We hear about some but we don't hear about others. GRRM didn't show us any anti-sparrow Faith of the Seven characters and I think that's pretty unrealistic. 
> 
> I guess Jaime and Brienne should be arriving at KL about now.
> 
> I think we have about two chapters left in the Vale. We've spent a long time here, sorry if it felt like it dragged.
> 
> After we leave the Vale we're getting a new POV. Does anyone want to guess who it is?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story with your readership, kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc.


	40. Sansa XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nobility of the Vale gathers in Gulltown for the Council of the Faith of the Seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a 8.8K chapter.
> 
> Warning for a graphic description of animal sacrifice.

“Ysilla. Your runes. I would borrow them.”

It was after supper, and Runestone had just risen from its knees after praying the Luminary in the hall. _What a day this has been. _After the morning’s clamor had died, they had approached the high table with Ser Steffon and Ser Walton. Domeric had been right. _All their assurances to me come after Lord Baelish_. “We will help you,” Lord Royce had promised, and Lady Waynwood too. The Knight of Ninestars, Lord Belmore, and Lord Hunter had nodded mutely while Lord Redfort stared. After that Lord Redfort had taken Domeric aside, and she knew not what had been said.

“My runes?” Ysilla quirked an eyebrow upward. “Aren’t you a bit _old _for children’s games, Domeric?”

“’Tis no child’s game to speak with the gods, my lady.” Then her husband wrinkled his nose. “We are nearly of an age, Ysilla.”

Ysilla rolled her eyes and handed Domeric the pouch in her pocket of her cloak. “Don’t lose any of them, or you owe me a new set.”

“I will take the utmost care.” Then he looked at Ser Mychel to Ysilla’s left. “By your leave I would ask your wife to accompany us to the godswood, my friend. And you as well, of course.”

They found Ser Wallace as well. “The heir presumptive to Winterfell must know the old gods,” Domeric said, and then they donned their cloaks and stepped out into the windy dark, torches in hand.

When they passed the Runestone Domeric touched it like he always did. “Good fortune, victory, and children as many as the stars in the sky,” Ysilla said. “That is what you pray for, Domeric?”

“Part of it.” They walked the winding path, footsteps crunching in the snow, and at the base of the heart tree they staked their torches in the ground. The five flames flickered in the wind, like the five fingers of a weirwood leaf, and from below they lit the god’s smiling face. Its canopy of leaves was thick, and above, the clouds thicker, obscuring the night heavens like a screen before a curtain. Domeric drew his knife and opened the cut on his palm.

“Here,” he said to her, once his knife was clean. _Even with practice I wince when it stings. _They both gave their blood to the god.

“Wallace,” Domeric said.

“Th-th-the S-s-seven h-h-hate i-i-it, m-m-my l-l-lord,” Ser Wallace said, from the dark.

“And the Northmen hate the Seven, good ser,” Domeric snapped, and his frown was something terrible in the low glow of the flames. “Gods forbid that fortune fail us and you come into Winterfell.”

“Th-th-then p-p-pray for f-f-fortune.” They prayed.

Domeric produced Ysilla’s pouch. He shook it and pulled out thirteen tiles, six in one palm, seven in the other, and turned them over, one by one.

“West,” Ysilla whispered.

“Aye.”

In the morning he took Ser Jon and Ser Mychel and a reluctant Ser Wallace with him. “I’m going hunting,” he told her. “Lord Royce ensured they were well-provisioned, but Lord Redfort scoffed.

“What fools, these boys of mine.” He muttered something about tanning Ser Jon’s hide if he missed the wedding and how it was such a pity that Domeric and Ser Mychel no longer answered to him. 

“You are the heir to the North,” Lady Anya told her son. “You ought do as the Northmen do. Lady Sansa is your liege now.”

They rode out the west gate, up the path to the Redfort, and further, the High Road. For three days and three nights they were gone, and they returned with the dawn bells on the fourth morning, a still-breathing, prodigiously antlered buck lying limp on a cart, legs broken, the hounds slobbering and barking behind it.

Ser Wallace and Ser Mychel and Ser Jon went with the rest of the household to the sept, but Domeric stayed behind.

“I must give the gods my gift,” he told her, and his spirits were flying high. They’d ridden through the night but he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come see me when you’re done. Bring Wallace with you.” Then he paused, looked her up and down, and smirked, his eyes glittering like moonstones. “Wear something you won’t mind ruining.”

Ser Jon and Ser Mychel followed her. They found him before the heart tree in only his breeches and his boots, red up to his elbows, red smeared on the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, red smudged along his jaw. He’d carved the buck open, throat to groin, and hung the carcass up to the weirwood tree by hooks in its hind legs, just above the knee. With twine he’d tied up the buck’s organs and strung them from the lower branches like lanterns, blood and bile seeping into the white. The creature’s bowels he’d twirled around the tree like flower garlands from rafters in the hall. The damp wood air teemed with pungent death and rotting leaves. She watched the muscles in his arms and chest and back ripple and stretch as he relieved his sacrifice of its skin. He was whistling a tune, serious and slow. She remembered it from Winter Town. They sang it before the plantings, before the harvests. His eyes gleamed with a tranquil wildness, a purposive, bridled joy. Every once in a while, the sun would break through the red leaves above and glare white off his blade. When he was done flaying the buck and trimming the fat he beckoned forward, his white torso smattered with blood and glistening with sweat.

“My lady,” he said. His gaze lingered for a moment, and then he turned to her companions and pointed to a circle of stones he’d made a safe distance away from the heart tree. “Mychel. Jon. Wallace. Help me build a bier.”

She stepped back and let them work. With eight hands it went quickly. There were many fallen branches littering the godswood floor. Once it was to Domeric’s liking they took down the buck from its hooks. The fat he’d trimmed away he smeared all along the kindling. There was a pail of water that used to wash off his hands. He wiped them on a rag and started a fire with his flint box.

As the sparks crackled into a roar he began to chant in the harsh and clacking tongue of old. His voice was strong and stern and full, with none of the jocular tricks he used to make performances his own. It was his voice, but did not sound like _him_. He was speaking to the gods, or for the gods, which, she did not know. The sound mingled with the whispers of the wind the rustles of the leaves and the calling of the birds in a grand harmony, earthy, natural, something like magic.

Behind the pyre, the god’s eyes glimmered red, and the burning brush seemed a rattling sigh. _It’s just weirwood sap, _she told herself. _It’s just the kindling. _But she knew Domeric would say otherwise. _The gods are here. The old gods of the forest._

Beside her Ser Wallace stared at his feet, but Ser Mychel and Ser Jon kept their attention ahead, postures sentinel-straight. Ser Mychel’s nostrils flared, and his lip was curling, but Ser Jon’s eyes twinkled with fascinated light. Then Domeric’s song was done, and the spell was over.

“M-m-may I g-g-go now, m-m-my lord?” said Ser Wallace.

“You may,” Domeric said. He nodded at the Redfort brothers and they left too. “That was beautiful, Dom,” said Ser Jon, and Ser Mychel waved in silence.

“Will we be leaving as well?” she asked. Her tummy rumbled. She had not yet broken her fast.

“No,” he said. “We are not yet finished.” His eyes were hungry, and his mouth more so, and she felt his hunger hard against her belly. He tasted like he smelled - salt sweat and iron blood – and his teeth gnashed hers without a care. He took her by the hand and pulled her to where he’d lain his things. He had a jar of acorns in water, which he drained, and dumped into a mortar. He cut his palm and bled, and bid her to do the same. Then he went to the tree, and with his knife hacked at a sap tear. He spit, mashed it all together, swirled it with his first finger, and licked it clean. He dipped his finger again.

“Eat of it,” he said. She took him into her mouth and he pushed further back along than she would have liked. The paste was bitter with an iron tang, and even when swallowed it all down the awful taste stuck fast to her tongue. The wildness in his eyes was back, with none of the tranquility. “We will pray and we will sing.”

As they sang she looked to the heart tree. The god was still smiling, its gaze still glimmering with red, mirthful tears. When the wind changed, the smoke from the dying fire blew into her face, and she choked on death on her tongue, tears pricking at her eyes. Even through the wool of her cloak the gnarled roots poked her skin.

“I love you,” he murmured. Their song was done, and his heart still thundered like a war drum.

“And I love you.” There was his touch, swift and slick, and when his hand passed over her face and went to the god’s mouth, she breathed in the lurid scent.

She washed bits of dead leaves and little twigs out of her hair when they entered the castle again, and left their chambers that afternoon, while her husband slept, and dreamed.

***

With his beard and his Royce surcoat, Domeric was Ser Jonnel again, and she, Danelle Rivers. _A bastard girl can ride amongst the knights._ Lord Royce had gifted her a snow-white palfrey with a grey mane, and she sat tall in the saddle now, but atop his knight’s courser, Domeric sat taller. As they passed south through the lavender field, among the long, colorful column of knights and ladies, she looked up at his sneering mouth, darkened brow.

The night before they left, another black mood had come upon him. “It is folly to leave this castle. To go to Gulltown. If you intend to fight you have no business going where Baelish is.”

“He cannot harm me.” _Not with the Royce knights there. Not with you._

“He can harm your _cause_. He has the ear of the Iron Throne.”

“So does your father,” she’d said. “He will have told them already. They know – they will know that I am here. Aunt Lysa, they must have told her – ”

“No,” he’d said. “There wasn’t the time. Between the Twins and King’s Landing it takes days for ravens to fly. She was already on the ship.” She could see his jaw twitch in frustration, though he kept his tone even and calm. “All the more reason not to go.”

Twinges tight and painful had shot through her throat. _I have to go, I must._ “Lady Anya said – it is different now. For Aunt Lysa too. The Crown is weaker, she will not want to help them, not when their hold is not secure. The Knights of the Vale – they answer to her – ”

“And she is one with Baelish.” _Have a care for caution and consider all of the consequences. Do not rush. Do not be rash. Leave your options open. That is my counsel, your grace._ _I will help you_. Help and counsel, that is what he’d called it, but it all felt like dissuasion and discouragement to her, even if he showed his hand and took her side in the end. When he sat across the table she could never tell. That evening, however – _this is discouragement for true. He does not want me to go._ The stiffness in his frame and the restrained force in his hands had belied the mildness in his voice.

_He wants to tell me no, _she’d sensed. _This deference is forced. He speaks a subject’s words when he would give a husband’s orders. _“Be not alarmed when it happens,” Lady Anya had told her. “It is easier for younger sons to wed a ruling lady. Heirs will expect obedience.” _I must persuade him, win him over, or bear his scorn._ She did not want more hurt between them, and was loath to be its cause.

“Lord Baelish loved my mother dearly. He said so. They grew up together. What happened to her… you said that they shouldn’t kill highborn ladies. They shouldn’t have killed her. Aunt Lysa, she – she is Mother’s sister, Uncle Edmure’s sister. A Tully of Riverrun. What was done – what was done to House Tully _must_ move her.” Even in her heart it sounded like a feeble plea._ Hope, hope, I must hope. We must do everything. _“Family, Duty, Honor,” she said.

“That woman cares naught for her family, nor for her duty, nor for her honor. She is mad.” Denial there was impossible. _Try again, try again._

“Uncle Edmure and Aunt Lysa and cousin Robert are the last I have of Mother in the world. I would be near them if I can.” At that she’d seen the guilt flash on his face. Victory left a bitter taste in her mouth. _I’m sorry._

“Very well,” he’d whispered, looking away. “It shall be as you wish, your grace.” _I’m sorry. _

_I am not afraid,_ she told herself. _But he is, and for me. _Septon Lucos had charged her to soothe his fears. His shoulder walled his gaze away, but she traced the muscles where it met his neck and ran a hand under his arm to palm his heart. She felt him sigh.

“It will be all right,” she said. “Lord Royce said I oughtn’t see her until they’ve all said their piece. He and Lady Anya. If their talks go poorly I will not show my face. I will not be Sansa Stark.”

Danelle Rivers’ black mantle hung easy on her shoulders, but Jonnel Holt’s garb had him displeased. He would have rather been Domeric Bolton.

“We’re going to Gulltown,” she said. A stalk of lavender brushed her white palfrey’s flank and she seized it, plucking it off with a snap. She threaded it behind her ear and smiled at him. “You said you’re always happy when you go to Gulltown.”

“Aye,” he answered, without happiness.

Not even his favorite song could lift his spirits. Not even the original words that she did not like. Only when they reached the woods did he breathe easy. The rustling leaves and chirping birds muffled their party’s chatter and seemed to bring him peace. The voice of the old gods. _They live wherever green trees grow. _But when they passed out of the wood and into the foothills, his stiffness returned, and when they entered through the city gates, his sneer. It was just like when they’d arrived. Though she had her own horse, if she closed her eyes she could feel the restless tension in his chest against her back. He had no need to hold the reins, though he did, but loosely. He spoke to Rhaegar with his legs. His gaze kept sweeping left and right, right and left, as if he expected the smallfolk to part and reveal daggers in the dark, and his sword hand never left the hilt.

“Not a fortnight past, a mob brought down the king of the Seven Kingdoms,” he said, when they reached the manse where they’d be staying for the night. Lord Royce owned it, and the Redforts the one next to it, and the Waynwoods the one next to that. They called it the Noble Quarter. Artisans of the highest skill and merchants of the finest wares had criers hawking their wares on the cobblestone streets below. “Of course I kept up my guard.”

She looked out the window. Gulltown was not like King’s Landing. The air stank of fish and salt and birds’ leavings, but the air was colder, and kept the smell from stewing. When the banners Arryn blue and Baelish green snapped in the wind, hanging from windows and strung from the rooftops, one could almost call the wind bracing. And there was so much laughter. _These people are not starving. These people are happy. _Gulltown boasted ten times as many fat men and ten times fewer beggars as the capital. It did not feel like a city about to riot.

_This is a city at peace. _As they rode the cobblestone streets to the Sept of the Seven Stars the crowd waved wools and silks as blue as the sky and as white as the moon. Some were scraps of old clothing, but others were ribbons and hats and even tiny Arryn moon-and-falcon standards. _“Lady Lysa!_” they cheered. “_Lady Arryn! As High as Honor!” _

A little girl who’d seen no more than four name days squealed as Sansa approached. “Lady Lysa!”

“’S’not her, m’dear,” said her father, who scooped her up and sat her atop his shoulders. The Valemen’s lilt rolled off his tongue, singsong and merry. His eyes shone bright like diamonds in the rough of his smudged and dirty face as he waved. “She went thataways, our good lady. To Sevenstar.” He turned and motioned to the sept’s seven shining spires, looming over the city below. “In the blue ‘ouse-o-wheels. Tha’s another fair lady with pretty red ‘air,” he said, winking.

Rhaegar whinnied, kicking the ground, and Domeric hustled her away.

The Sept of the Seven Stars was not the oldest sept in the Vale, but it was the vastest. “It’s the seat of the Faith in the Vale,” Cassandra explained to her, awe in her eyes and reverence in her voice. Its high walls and soaring spires reached up to the sky as if to grasp at heaven, no stone the same color as any one next to it. “Pilgrims from Wickenden to the Fingers walked with stones from their villages to help with the construction. They loved this place.” Her mouth grew tender. “I love this place.” Then, softly. “I was to wed Robar here this year.”

When the men came to take away their horses, Cassandra walked her up the stairs, almost to the doors, and she pointed at everything there was to see in the plaza. “King Artys Arryn and Ser Argos Sevenstar,” she said, motioning to the grand statue topping the fountain at the center. Old Ser Argos, his beard neat and his breastplate carved with constellations, looked down at the kneeling Ser Artys, sword to shoulder, the young knight’s precious sapphire eyes glittering in the grey stone. “King Artys laid the foundation, but never forgot the man who knighted him.” To the east and to the west lay two arched gates guarded by two stern sentinels with farsighted eyes. “Lord Mychel Redfort and Lord Arrick Royce,” she said. “With their conversion three thousand years ago, all the Vale came under the Light of the Seven.”

Passing through the doors, she could hear the whispers echoing within. _Lord Baelish is in there, _she knew. _Robert and Aunt Lysa are here too._ Danelle was a maiden, and sat with the maidens, behind the women wed. Domeric sat in the back with the knights of lower birth, though Ser Jonnel had the right to sit further up. She looked his way but could not catch his eyes, so she looked up instead.

The stained-glass dome was high above, so high that it looked as small as the ceiling of Mother’s sept at Winterfell, but she knew that could not be. The panes of glass were so tiny and so close in color that the rainbow lights blended and bled. Around the dome, the vaulted ceiling was painted in tones deep and dark and cool and spangled with silver stars. Depending on how the noonday sun hit the chandeliers, the seven gods on the seven altars below seemed to float, at this moment in ascent, the next in descent from the shining portal above. _Magic, _she’d thought, _or a miracle._ But it was a painter’s trick of perspective.

She chanced a glance at Domeric again. Head twisted back round, his gaze led to the nave, where lay Ser Argos’ empty tomb. Carved with passages from the Seven-Pointed Star, the stone slab beneath his sleeping effigy bore another message that she’d seen in passing: _I died in the bitterest North, and where I rest none can say. Weep not for me, for I lay down my life to shine the Light on these dark sunset lands. Weep not for me, but gird up your loins, take up your sword, and fall on your knees. Rise, and hold high your head, and walk the Path, the Way, and never falter in your steps. Weep not for me, but rejoice, for the Light of the Seven shall always prevail._

Then the bells rung, and the bride entered.

***

There would be no meeting with Aunt Lysa. Not for her, not for anyone. She, Lord Baelish, and young Robert had already set off for the Eyrie, borne away by the cheering throngs.

Her aunt had positively floated to the altar amidst the chanting choir, enraptured tears running down her face. Robert had escorted her, pale and sickly in Arryn blue. _My poor cousin, _Sansa had thought, her heart aching. _What is wrong with him? Why does he quiver so? _Aunt Lysa’s gown was more comely than she was. Silk of the palest blue, cinched in with a silver belt beneath the bust to make her waist seem small. It did not work. The skirt flared out to a billowy train and began just beneath her heavy bust, which she had put on display with a deeply cut bodice. Her veiny white breasts jiggled as she walked. _She does not look like Mother. Not at all. _Even her hair was half as red, half as lustrous. _My mother was beautiful._

Dread and foreboding trickled down her shoulders as the ceremony dragged on. Lord Baelish’s presence, that’s what it was. Her only respite was the sermon, when Septon Vortimer, clear-eyed and handsome, had announced the council to all the guests and begged their lordly attendance. When Littlefinger tipped up his face to give Aunt Lysa a kiss, long and loud and lewd, she knew the thing was finished, and she was glad.

She was not so glad when they filed out into the plaza to cheer the bride and groom on their way. “The Lord of the Vale consents to this council and lends the Faith all his support,” Robert called, his high voice weak and reedy. Then he looked at Aunt Lysa and Lord Baelish and nodded. “The Lord of the Vale wishes to return home to the Eyrie. The capital has tired me. This wedding feast is cancelled! Thank you all for coming here today to support my lady mother and my Uncle Petyr.”

After Robert stepped into the blue wheelhouse it started. “My lady,” Lord Royce had said, stepping forward onto the stairs, his bronze cloak snapping in the wind. “If you could stay just an hour. It has been so long. We would have words, we would congratulate you, give the gifts that you are due…”

“Yes,” Lady Waynwood added. “My lady, just an hour of your time – ”

_“No,” _Aunt Lysa snapped. Even near the back of the crowd, Sansa could see her blue eyes bulge, and Littlefinger’s twinkling smile. Next to her, Domeric stiffened.

“_No! _Not an hour shall you have, _Bronze Yohn Royce! _Not a moment! Not when I hear that you harbor – some, some – _floozy bastard girl_ that Danwell squirted in your whore niece! Not when you hold her up as a claimant to _my husband’_s seat. No. _No! _I say to you, _Bronze Yohn_, _our_ children shall hold Harrenhal. My mother was a Whent born true and clean – _our_ children’s claim is stronger – How _dare you – ” _

Tall and strong as he was, Lord Royce stepped back as if faced with a snarling shadowcat unarmed. He opened his mouth to get a word in, but Aunt Lysa had already rounded on Lady Anya, screeching shrill. “And _you, Anya Waynwood – _you, _you – _I know you kneel in your sept, _praying_ for my Robert to die, waiting to hold up that cocksure Hardyng _brat _as Jon’s true heir – ”

Unlike Lord Royce, Lady Anya held firm. “My lady, I swear on my honor, that is the _furthest _from the truth – ”

But Aunt Lysa didn’t care, and she shoved past them both. Lady Anya tumbled down the stairs, and Littlefinger followed in his new wife’s wake, smiling smugly all the while.

Wallace lurched into the plaza. _“Mother – ” _he called. He did not stutter.

The Arryn cloaks faded into the sky, and Arryn swords gleamed white in the sun.

Domeric seized her by her upper arm, his fingers digging hard. “We’re going.” Sansa tugged on Ysilla’s sleeve. They locked eyes and Ysilla understood. Her husband dragged her all the way to the sept’s private stables and did not let go until she was mounted up.

“My palfrey – ”

“Someone will take care of it.” Then he took off his bronze Royce cloak, his bronze Royce tunic, until he was just in his plain white linen shirt. “Hold it.” She felt him slide into the saddle behind her.

The back way to the Noble Quarter was crowded. Many smallfolk still lined the streets that made the straightest path, waiting to cheer their lady, but the day was bright, and most were about their business. At the menacing glare of the red stallion’s eyes they parted, fear in their eyes. It took not a quarter of an hour to reach the manse.

“Give the cloak back to me.” The servants let him in when they saw his garb. He ignored their questions and pushed her upstairs.

“We should not have come here.” His voice was soft but his eyes were anything but. “Now we cannot leave until the council is done, and that will take many days.”

“My lord,” she said, for he wore a lord’s face and spoke with a lord’s voice. “I am sorry, we could not have known – we still do not know – the people, they did not riot – ”

“The people did not riot, aye, but knights drew their swords. Lysa Arryn’s knights. And Lysa Arryn sought _Danelle Rivers_.” He was trying not to frown. “What fools we all are. Baelish was named _Lord of Harrenhal._ The Whents have been deposed. We could have known. We should have.” To some he might have seemed cold, but to her, his anger flared plain. _He needs another leeching. _Helliweg was downstairs but the good maester would say it was too early. It mattered not. She knew how to take care of it.

She lowered her gaze and clasped her hands together. “My lord, I beg your pardon. I ought to have heeded your counsel. I rue my folly now.” With eyes shy and meek she peeked back up at him. “You were so quick to take me out of harm’s way. So brave and fearless. I know… I know how your thoughts ever fly to my defense, my lord. My knight.” She parted her lips until she was not quite pouting. “Always, you rescue me.”

His eyes flared hot, though with anger no longer. He stepped forward, just an inch, to change his stance. The quickness in his breathing lingered. He said not a word but only stared.

Slowly, she sank to her knees. “I would give you a kiss of thanks, my knight. My love. My lord.”

When the Royce household returned, and Lady Anya too, his black mood was gone.

“Of course Wallace is all right, dear girl. No blood was spilled this day. Not for a young man seeing to his lady mother.” Lady Anya still had dust on her shoulders. “These old bones of mine are strong.” Then Lady Anya’s mouth shifted. “I must admit that the moment grew quite tense. When I found you not, I worried.” At that Sansa praised Domeric’s quickness, and Lord Royce clapped him on the back.

“Lady Stark. Now you have seen. Our good lady is as mad as the _moon._”

“I saw, my lord. I know.” High hope, dashed to the ground. _Seek another way. _“Her bannermen. They were all there. Her behavior – could their minds be swayed?”

It was Lady Anya who answered. “Not by her _behavior_, no. Her outbursts have become routine. Her disregard for the Faith. That is what it will be. To think, Lord Arryn absent from such a council. _Unthinkable_ – ”

“Pushing the _Lady of Ironoaks _to the ground, that was _unthinkable_. Anya, I say to you, some minds were swayed this day.”

“Her contempt for the gods will sway more. These events are rare. Historically significant. The last one – the King of Mountain and Vale was but a babe, and yet his mother had him sit his seat. Custom, form, _propriety._ The _duty _of House Arryn. Why, without the Faith, why ought _she_ rule us? Why that sickly boy? What scorn she shows. She ought have stayed. Or left him.”

Robert’s face swam before her eyes, pinched and pale and drawn, and she couldn’t help but think of Bran, left alone at Winterfell, its acting lord for so short a time. _Little boys. _She pictured the Knights of the Vale, tall and proud, straight-backed and stern-voiced._ They will dominate the council. It may be his duty to sit among them as their head, but he does not belong._

***

In the days that passed, _she _did not feel that she belonged. _These are stuffy Valemen, and I am of the North._ They held the council in the sept, all turned towards the altar of the Crone, and every morning Septon Vortimer chanted the seven invocations to her Wisdom, seven septas swinging lanterns at his side, while His High Holiness looked on, silent.

“This is ridiculous_,_” she commented, sitting in the plaza with Ysilla and Randa. She could not bear to be inside anymore. “What does any of it matter? The Targaryens are gone.”

“It’s not even pious bleating, it’s splitting hairs.” Randa threw a coin into the fountain. “All that droning. Can you believe it? Knights of blood arguing over _what words mean_. Cassandra and Mychel too. I’d never thought I’d miss her moralizing. Hellfire and all that, at least that’s _exciting._ Makes you sweat. This – this makes you want to _snore…_”

The most interesting thing to happen during the part of the council that she saw was Cassandra and her correspondence circle presenting His High Holiness with a new seven-pointed crown wrought in gold and silver, studded with crystal stars. “A replica of Hugor’s crown,” Ysilla said, under her breath. “That’s what Cassie said.” Cassie herself fell prostrate on the ground weeping, as all her ladies did, after she kissed the High Septon’s rainbow ring. He consecrated them all to the Seven-Who-Are-One, heart, flesh, and soul, and named them the Brides of Hugor, an organization for lay ladies.

“Lord Redfort will be happy,” Ysilla whispered. “Now she won’t need to be a septa.”

Otherwise, it was all terribly dull and dry. There were hardly any Dornishmen, and perhaps two septons from the Snowy Sept in White Harbor. The godsworn from the Stoney Sept and those from Sevenstar lay thinly-veiled insults at each other, and accused each other of heresy. Those of the Sunset Sept in Lannisport and those from the Stormy Sept outside Bronzegate hardly spoke, and all fell silent when the Most Devout out of the Starry Sept in Oldtown said their piece.

“I could not follow _any_ of it,” she complained to Domeric. They’d retired to their chamber one evening and he was sharpening his knife. “How can you?”

He studied her in the knife’s reflection. “I know the history,” he said. “And we had theology lessons at the Redfort. The concepts are only intermediate. And there is a great irony which amuses me. The Motherhouse of Maris was named for one of the Seven Speakers, and yet its daughters seek to undo her work.” Then his gaze darkened. “The rivermen and the Gulltown pious tear at each other’s throats. I do not see the point. They ought stamp out the cult of the Red God growing on the Trident first. Thoros of Myr should never have been allowed to make port.”

She nodded at him.

“In the end it matters not to me, however interesting I may find it. It should not matter to you. The Faith belongs to the South, and we are of the North.” Satisfied with his work, he sheathed his knife. “If the council bores you, do not trifle with it. They record everything, those septons. What is important will come out when it is done. Tomorrow we will not go. There are many amusements in Gulltown.”

His chief amusement lay between the feathers and the furs, but as the days wore on he grew comfortable taking her into the city. “The favor your cause, your grace. My family does not know I am alive. They have put out a reward for me.” While the Ryswells sought Domeric Bolton, there had been no birds forwarded from the Twins. Not for him, not for Ser Walton, not for Ryella. There were no birds from Riverrun or from the capital. No one was looking for Sansa Stark. None that had come forward.

Baelish’s men knew where Danelle Rivers lay her head, but they would do nothing to attack Bronze Yohn’s knights. Her shield was Ser Jonnel Holt of White Harbor, who saw no reason to sail home to a North ruled by the Boltons. He had no captain, for Ser Wendel was slain, Ser Wylis captive. She made him doublets and jerkins in Holt colors, white and blue, and with his whiskers only the trained eye would see that Domeric Bolton lay beneath.

She was a floozy bastard girl. Their closeness was expected. In the daylight they rode together throughout the city and he showed her the places that he loved. Sometimes, others who grew bored of the debating joined them. Ser Jon, for one, and Lady Ellyn. Ser Roland and Ser Harrold. Ser Lyle Lynderly and Ser Lyn Corbray. They stopped in the best shops but bought little, though not for the merchants’ lack of trying. They sampled sweet cakes from bakers and spiced roast gull wings on sticks from vendors on the street and found sea glass in the briny ocean, or lay together singing songs in the sand. It was better than Duskendale. At the back of her mind guilt lay curled up like a sleeping cat. It felt a waste to while away the hours in idle merriment when she had a kingdom to reclaim. _I must do something, but there is very little I can do._

“Can’t we write to Karhold?”

“No,” Domeric said. “The Karstarks have thrown in with my father, as the Frey setpon told it.”

“White Harbor, then. Bear Island or Last Hearth.”

“Last Hearth will do nothing while the Freys hold the Greatjon.” He was loath to beg help of Bear Island while Ironborn reaved the Sunset Sea. “Lady Maege took the better share of her men south, your grace. The Freys destroyed them. We must leave some to defend their homes.” And for him the Manderlys were out of the question. “My father has broken guest right. Lord Too-Fat would have his men take my head at the first parley. All the better if his revenge makes you a widow.”

She could not even write to Riverrun, to her uncle the Blackfish, because Jeyne Westerling was there.

It all sounded like discouragement again. When she spoke up he sighed. “Truth be told, your grace. I would raise your army here. In the North the wife of the heir to the Dreadfort has few friends. You might be Ned Stark’s daughter, but all they will see is the mother of Bolton babes. Why bend the knee to her when Ned Stark’s son can be called back from the Wall?”

They had a small-eyed needle and a fraying thread. Their strongest support would come from the Rills, Barrowton, and the Dreadfort, but the latter at least would need to be defeated in the field. “My father cannot live,” was all he said. When she mentioned his grandfather and his aunt, she watched him stew over his words. “They must be threatened, at least. They stood to gain from my father’s advancement.”

In the evenings, when the debates were done with, she shed her yellow silks and became Sansa Stark again, and met with the lords and ladies amenable to her cause. They grew but slowly in number. _Baelish first,_ so the story went. Even Lord Royce was growing restless.

“These things move so _slowly_,” he said with scorn. “Already they have shut the doors of the Eyrie. Bah! I hate it. Winter nears. They should be at the Gates of the Moon.” It was a great stroke of luck that the Faith had condemned Littlefinger as a whoremonger and a usurer and unfit to rule the Vale, to serve as Lord Protector to the Lady Regent. It was not so lucky that the Faith was intent on resolving every issue under the stars.

Domeric bought a map of the lands north of the Blackwater and moved his flaying cross and horse’s head brooches around and around. He would stare at it all when he would return from his daily meetings with Lord Redfort. What they spoke on there he would not share, unless it pertained to the war. “Very little has changed since the death of the king. King Robb, and King Joffrey too.” Every day he waited for word from the Twins, from Moat Cailin, from anywhere, and every day none came. “The sparrows hold the capital and Dorne lies in silence. The lion and the rose grow further apart, and my father waits at the Twins while my grandfather sieges the Moat and the Riverlands burn.” Besides the fact that Ryella’s daughter Hostella had been born, the only news of import was that Stannis had shown up at the Wall. At that she frowned, but she could do nothing about it.

Her moonblood came and in the twisting pain she’d wept about everything wrong in the world. “I miss her. I miss Arya. Oh, I fought with her so much. I wish I’d never fought with her. Oh, how I wish we’d never quarreled…”

Domeric wiped away her tears but said nothing. Guilt stabbed her in the throat. _Our quarrels were not true fights. We never spilled each other’s blood. _But for her cause, her husband might. She remembered how once he’d smiled and laughed when he’d spoken about his Ryswell relations, and wept again_. _

It was clear how he longed for godswood and the heart tree. The dark circles under his eyes never disappeared. In the evenings he’d read the books he’d brought from Runestone, about the First Men and the Children. When they’d ride to the beach, he’d stare at the grey ocean and chant in the Old Tongue under his breath. When he was done she’d take his hand, and they would walk, savoring the silence.

She missed it too. Amidst the square buildings and straight-lined streets, the calling of the gulls and the chatter of the crowd, it was easy to lose purpose. She missed the tangled wild and the smell of moss and rotten leaves. She missed the quiet and the dark, and most of all the peace.

One evening they returned for supper to find the council would close on the morrow. _Finally, _she thought. _It has been long enough._

“You simply _must_ attend,” said Ser Mychel. “Generations live and die without even mention of another council.” She had not known Ser Mychel to be the zealous type, but perhaps something about the council had stoked the fire in his heart. Or perhaps it was his namesake’s statue, whose face he looked upon every day.

“Very well, then,” Domeric said, studying his friend with curious eyes.

The council’s closing day was held not in Sevenstar, but in the plaza outside. It was a bright day, cold and crisp, and even in the sunlight she could see her white breath. _It will be here soon. Winter. _The place was packed with all kinds, from the godsworn to the high lords, to the knights and ladies, to the tradesmen and the merchants, to the poorest beggars from the blackest Gulltown alleys. The nobles had cordoned off the section between the fountain and the doors to keep the rabble apart, yet the crush of bodies made a tight fit. She held fast to Domeric’s side as the Most Devout filed out of Sevenstar, His High Holiness at their head. A pulpit was brought out, and chairs, and the High Septon led them all in seven invocations to the Seven-Who-Are-One, and they all knelt to recite the Creed. When all had risen, His High Holiness waved a white glove and sat, and Septon Vortimer took the pulpit.

With his shiny chestnut-brown hair, aquiline nose, and clear blue eyes, he looked the part of a lord, and with his strong hands and sturdy frame, he could have been a knight. His voice pierced the air like silver trumpets, and when he spoke, men stared.

“O ye Valemen, pious and martial, much honor you are due! Much honor we give! Most proud and noble of the Andal race, here you landed, here you fought, and here you stayed, to bear the Seven’s Light to these Sunset Lands, this vast Westeros, these Seven Kingdoms. Nestled among your mountain peaks you have kept the Faith, persisted in truth! Where on farther shores the Light has dimmed, here, you have preserved it, and here, today, you shelter us in our darkest hour. These Seven Kingdoms have fallen away from the Seven Gods. To the North and to the West, R’hllor and his minions steer souls to hellfire with their glamours and their false lights. To the South, _mad men walk_, preying on the weak and the lost and the downtrodden with twisted hopes of worldly comforts, of earthly paradise. To the east, over the sea, lies unspeakable horror.

“We say to you all: When the night is darkest, that is the time to draw your sword. That is the time to hold the lantern aloft. That is the time to let the Light shine forth, from your eyes and from your heart and from your soul. Today we proclaim the Truth, and correct the errors of our recent age.

“First: With our brothers and sisters of the Stoney Sept we have resolved our quarrel and mended all hurts. In the words of Hugor we have found understanding. The Truth was written in the Andal tongue! Where the Rite of the Riverlands exemplified the Mother’s mercy and the Smith’s diligence, it has let men forget the nature of the Father’s justice as was given to us in the words of Hugor. It is there in the Seven-Pointed Star how the realms of men should be! Lo, lo, what woe! The high have forgotten their duties, and the low have been lead astray! Lords and ladies, you have been blessed with noble blood. You have been charged with a noble purpose. Dispense the Father’s justice with the Mother’s merciful heart, and with the Smith’s diligence and the Crone’s wisdom strive ever toward peace in your domains. The Warrior’s swords you wield not to abuse the weak, but to defend them! Strike them not, rape them not, enslave them not! Love them, protect them, provide for them as a father would for his wife and children. As the godsworn preach the Path of Light, you are to walk the Way of Truth! Repent! Repent and do your duty!

“Second: Three-and-ten score years ago we of the Faith allowed a great crime to go unanswered. From our own lips we proclaimed it – the lies and deceptions of the Seven Speakers. Mother Maris of dearest memory we ourselves deny! Beloved though she was, her words were false. For the sake of her soul let us pray it was only an error borne far on the wings of unreflective zeal. But we must declare the Doctrine of Targaryen Exceptionalism a heresy of the foulest sort. Incest is an abomination for all mankind! A sin is a sin for all men! Sin and dark and death know no race! Here on earth we are high and low, great and small, with vast differences between us, but before the Seven’s Judgment we are all equal in our lowliness. Prince and peasant alike bear the same darkness in their hearts. We are all but gnats before the gods in heaven.

“Third: On the dragons, those hell-snakes by which the Targaryens kept these Seven Kingdoms under thrall. What did we do when we landed here, guided by the light of the Seven Stars? Who remembers the deeds of Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, of Ser Galladon of Morne? True knights after the Warrior himself!” At that Domeric frowned. “Dragonslayers of honor and fame, who cast them back into the deeps of the seventh hell. With those fell beasts the Targaryens held a knife to our throats, a sword over our necks, ever to fall should we speak against their falsehoods. What shame that we fell soft in our resistance! Woe, woe, for the charge of the godsworn is to preach the Truth even unto death. When the dragons died, did we rebuke our craven hearts? No! For that we failed, and for that we now repent. Now we do our duty. Today we share what our forebears have hidden for too long! Behold, the voice of the gods!”

Then Septon Vortimer stopped speaking, but the hush remained. His High Holiness rose, and raised his hand, and took the pulpit. His voice came out as whispers on the wind, a breath, intimate against every ear.

“Three hundred years ago, the Crone set true vision in our eyes: Raise not your hand to fight these creatures from the sky, but let the Light be your sword, the Truth your shield, or the Starry Sept, the Citadel, and the High Tower will burn. Keep the Faith, and watch, and wait, and the hellsnake will perish, swallowing its own tail, burning in its own flame. Keep the Faith, and shine the Light on all these sunset lands, north and south and east and west. The Light split into two, and three, and Seven, but seven lights made one again is deepest black.

“Keep the Faith and speak these words when the dragons die, lest the sun set and demons reign over a world of dead men walking in the dark. Should that come to pass, seek help from no man of woman born, no woman of man begotten, and look only to the gods and to the Light, your sword that falls from heaven’s stars.”

The only sound in the plaza was the calling of the gulls, the whistling of the wind. The city beyond seemed to have fallen silent. Somehow she had let go of Domeric and brought a palm to her chest. Her heart was beating quick as wings of a dragonfly. _These words are the stuff of songs,_ she thought. _All this from all that dry droning. How grand this is. _With bated breath she watched the High Septon wave, returning to his seat, as Septon Vortimer took the pulpit again.

“The gods have spoken,” he called. “And it is clear to us that the dark has fallen indeed. Was the Crone’s wisdom shared when the dragons died? Nay!”

“Nay!” answered the crowd.

“Have these Seven Kingdoms kept the Faith? One, mayhaps, or two, but Seven? Does the Light shine on all these sunset lands?”

“Nay!”

“Nay! The Light split into two, and three, and Seven. Seven Kingdoms we have, in this fair Westeros, not one. One king has ruled over all since the coming of the dragon: seven lights made one, and indeed, the deepest black! Incest, bastardy, kinslaying, death by fire! That is what the dragon brought us! And now that they are gone, we are left to fight like dogs over poison scraps. That Iron Throne, if there ever was an icon of sin and death and dark, that is it. What has that crown done to those who wear it? What does it do to those who seek it? What of Robert’s incestuous queen and her bastard get? What of his usurper brother and his vile perversions? What of his brother the apostate, the iconoclast, and his red whore? What of the last Targaryen, with her dragons and Dothraki horde, who across the sea claims to be a goddess herself? To all of them the Faith says nay! _Nay_! _Seven crowns for Seven Kingdoms!” _

“_SEVEN CROWNS FOR SEVEN KINGDOMS!”_

The crowd was roaring. She was giddy. Lightheaded. _My cause, _she thought. _My crown._ _They can help me. The Valemen. They want to fight. _She could feel it. The fire in their hearts. Her hands shook as she folded them together over her breast. Her smile strained her cheeks, but the pain was sweet.

The cheers faded when Septon Vortimer opened his mouth again. “O ye Valemen, pious and martial, may the spirit of the Warrior ever grace your hearts! It is well-known how you have longed to fight in this pointless struggle. We say to you today: we have a fight for you! A holy cause! Trapped your king lies, in the clutches of a whoremonger, a usurer, a heathen of the worst sort. From Braavos beyond the sea he came, from that city where they worship death. He has seduced the noble Lady Arryn and twisted her addled mind. Free him! Free King Robert of the Mountain and Vale!”

“_KING ROBERT OF THE MOUNTAIN AND VALE!” _

“That is not our only charge: To the west and to the North a kingdom lies in shambles. The cult of the demon R’hllor preys on the weak and the lost, led by Thoros of Myr and the dead man who was once Beric Dondarrion, and by Stannis, the false king. Woe, woe to the injustice done to him, the Young Wolf, of that line of ancient, noble Starks! The first King in the North to be named in the Light of the Seven! See what horror the Red Wedding has wrought! The gods hate the breakers of guest right. Winter comes, and countless innocents lie on the brink of starvation, beset by rapers and thieves and outlaws.”

She could hardly believe her ears. _Robb! He speaks of Robb! They will fight for Robb! They will fight for me! _

“The Faith charges you all: West! Fly west, and with your swords, make peace! Defend the innocent, restore justice! Open your arms so the weak may fly to your protection, and refuse the glamours of the red god! Stamp out the flames that burn along the Trident!” A cheer went up again. “Ser Walton Frey. Ser Steffon. Step forward.” They obeyed. “Alone among the knights of your house have you repudiated the deed that fouled it. Alone among the men grown! Alone can you claim the virtue of _nobility._” Septon Vortimer whispered, and the two Frey knights fell to their knees, and lay their swords on the ground, and spoke some words she could not hear. “Rise, Walton! Lord of the Crossing! Fly west, and set your house to rights!”

_That’s it. The Twins. My chance, it’s here. My army, it’s here. My prayers have been answered._

“O ye mighty Valemen: This we also charge you. Fly North, and stamp out the flames that burn in the snow. Let not the Red God take root on these shores. Let not the smoke obscure the stars! By your words and your deeds and your upright bearing, take all pains to drag your brothers back to the Way of Truth. But dither not to cut down those who have turned their backs forever. The Queen in the North was named in the Light of the Seven! Soon will dawn the day when the Light shines on the Wall!”

_That’s me! That’s me! They’re going to fight for me! _Her heart was filled to bursting. Septon Vortimer moved on, imploring the fat and happy smallfolk to give up their comforts and tithe up their surplus harvest to share with their starving brothers across the land. He spoke of slaying dragons and the stars in the sky, but she was too giddy to care.

_Oh, my heart, it is on fire._

She looked up at her husband and smiled at him. _Look, my lord, look. Hear, my lord, hear! _But Domeric only stared ahead and balled his fists, his face a pale stone mask, his eyes two chips of cold and bitter ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Memorial Day to those of you in the USA.
> 
> I mentioned all that Faith worldbuilding was going somewhere :3
> 
> Safe to say, Domeric is not happy about the idea of a Vale crusade even if it's against Rh'llor. Septon Vortimer's speech was inspired by Pope Urban II's speech launching the First Crusade at the Council of Clermont in 1095. It was a lot of fun to write that Large Ham.
> 
> <s>If all goes according to plan the next chapter will go up on June 4/5.</s>
> 
> I've become more active on tumblr (@ladyoflosgar) and will post updates there. Next time we are back in Domeric's head.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story.
> 
> ETA 6/18/2020: This chapter has been revised. Originally, Domeric hadn't told Sansa about the fact that his family was looking for him, and that was going to be addressed in chapter 42. But they'd already fought about too much so I took that out. I updated this chapter to make it clear that he told her. It doesn't change anything plotwise but made the next step in relationship development more manageable.
> 
> Sorry about the faux pas.


	41. Domeric XXI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having concealed his true frustrations about the situation from everyone, emotions boil over and Domeric blows up at Sansa after a disagreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If, through blind desire that destroys the heart,  
I do not deceive myself counting the hours,  
now, while I speak these words, the time nears  
that was promised to pity and myself.
> 
> What shade is so cruel as to blight the crop  
which was so near to a lovely harvest?  
And what wild beast is roaring in my fold?  
What wall is set between the hand and grain?
> 
> Ah, I do not know: but I see only too well  
that in joyous hope love led me on  
only to make my life more sorrowful.
> 
> And now I remember words that I have read:  
before the day of our final parting  
we should not call any man blessed.
> 
> -Petrarch, 'If, through blind desire that destroys the heart', Il Canzoniere
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains dark thoughts and a nightmare dream sequence involving nonconsensual sex.

_Sansa. My sweet one. You know not what you are about to do. _The crowd broke and he watched her face. Eyes bright, smile glowing, a spring in her step, following Septon Vortimer with her gaze.

_How I cannot stand that man. _He never could, not since he’d been a squire. “If the old gods exist, then they are demons.” _Breathe, count to ten. _He had to. It was all getting away from him.

He had half a mind to hike her over his shoulder and make for the stables. Ride for the docks, board a ship home. Land in a fishing village before White Harbor. Bribe a fisherman and take her back to the Dreadfort in a skiff just large enough for them and his horse, the wind whipping her cloak tight around her frame. _Not like this. Not like this._

_I would fight, but not like this._

But it was only half his mind – the half that had given up on honor. “A man makes his own choices,” Lord Horton had said, a long time ago. “A man stays the course once his choice has been made, unless circumstances make that impossible. A man keeps his vows, a man keeps his word. He keeps upright as he keeps the law. That’s the way honor lies.”

_I made my choice. I gave my word that I would fight._

_This is folly. To ride North under the Seven-Pointed Star is folly. _He’d almost rather ride back to his father – _no. _The world was red again, heating his blood, stabbing his eyes, pounding his head. _No._

He fought to keep his face as he helped her mount her horse. _Don’t snap. Keep your voice soft and your tone even. Breathe. Count to ten. _After a glance, she fell back to ride next to Cassandra. _Not now, not her. Seek out Lady Hunter instead._

“You cannot kill your father, lad. I will not let you do that.”

“The whole North bays for his blood.” _Mother does, and me. I have nothing to fear from him._

“Then the rest of the North can see him tried, and when the rest of the North finds him guilty, he can go to the Wall.”

“The gods demand his life.”

“The gods have all our lives, in the end.” He could hear Lord Horton’s voice in his mind’s ear, though at present his lordship was riding ahead with Septon Vortimer, and all the bells in the city clanged and clanged and clanged without ceasing. “What a fool you are. I mislike this path you walk. Peace was the best option for you. And now you seek to fight again. Why?”

_Because I saw her eyes light up. Because Steffon Frey came up to her and lifted her spirits. Because she said I was good and kind and brave and she would not think me so if I refused her second chance. Because it will all have been for nothing if I never see her smile again._

_Because I am a fool for love, and because there is more honor in slaying your enemy in the field than murdering him in his home. Because the gods will it. _“I told you. I cannot countenance any of it. To inherit a North he _stole_. The lords of the North will count me alongside him. History will remember me as a seducer who raped a girl and forced a marriage on her to secure his victory. They will think that this was planned, that I _collaborated _with him, and he, he will – ”

Lord Horton shook his head. “You cannot control what he does, or his men while he lives. You cannot control what other lords do or what they think. You can only control yourself. And your wife. If you can stomach it.”

_I am not in control of myself. I cannot control her. I am in control of nothing at all. _Events had passed him by. _Do nothing, _he’d thought. _Better do nothing than make another mistake. _All his choices had been mistakes for moons and moons.

It was the safest course. _They do not know we are here._ It must have been a miracle. Lord Horton had shown him the letter. _It is with great concern that I write to you. My grandson has been missing since before the turn of the year. He escaped by Duskendale. I know he trusts you with his life. He will make for Gulltown if he can. Please send word if you hear from him. The reward for his return is great. The Lannisters have set a generous sum which we have guaranteed to augment…_

_There is also the matter of the situation to the Trident and to the south. What happened at the Twins shocked us all, and the death of Tywin has left us uneasy. Roose we all must tolerate but Domeric is loved. My friend, can we count on you? Between Roose, Barbrey, and myself there is much we can offer. I understand you have two maiden daughters and two unwed sons, and several grandchildren. Over the fate of Barrowton I have much sway, and on the Hornwood question Roose has an open mind. As for Domeric himself Roose is sorting through his options, but you know our boy is open-handed. The North is large with many empty keeps. He would seek to raise up his friends and hold fast the bonds he made in your service. Come spring the North and the Vale will be closer than they ever were. I know you all shall share in my family’s grief should the worst truth obtain…_

_But I refuse to dwell on the worst. It does an old man no good. When he finds you, give him my love, and share my good news. His cousin Robert is to be married to Sara Glenmore of Rillwater when the Moat is freed, and young Rickard has been betrothed to Eddara Tallhart of Torrhen’s Square. In these dark days I hope these tidings might cheer him if he cannot celebrate with us. Tell him that if he is loath to pass beneath the Dreadfort’s gates, the Rills and Barrowton await his return with open arms._

“They are working with him.”

“You _need _them, Domeric.” Lord Horton was right but it mattered not. _I have made my bed and now I must lie in it. I must stay the course._

“I must catch them unawares. Secrecy is our greatest asset. If he knows, he will count it his own triumph.”

“Your grandfather and your aunt are not your father.”

“In the eyes of the North they might as well be. If I make common cause with them it will be taken for subterfuge. A feint. The iron gauntlet and the silk glove.”

The disapproval on Lord Horton’s face flashed in every pair of eyes, and the frustrated sigh Lord Horton made echoed off of every stone. “Very well then. We keep this _secret_. I will tell him nothing and express my sympathies. The lines have been drawn here in Gulltown. Half the Vale has thrown in for Stark. The very same half that would stand for you. I can do nothing for your grandfather. But I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. Whatever you decide. House Redfort will lend its support to Domeric Bolton. Not to Sansa Stark. Not to Roose Bolton. To you.”

_Whatever I decide. _What choice did he have? _I draped my cloak around her shoulders before half the Vale, and that half has pledged her their swords. _She’d had far more success than the Beggar King ever had. _Among these men all I had was my honor, and now my honor lies with her. All that is mine that I have not given to her is far away._ Grandfather, Aunt Barbrey, Robbie and Roose. Branna and Beth and Uncle Roger and Uncle Rick. _My mother’s blood. _

_The Rills and Barrowton await my return with open arms._

_How will I look any of them in the eye again? _How could he, when he could not even face himself? When the nightmares stopped, his eyes would fly open and he’d stare up at the ceiling. Pale grey stone stained dark by water. _Ghost’s blood. _The ghosts were back, and the dread. The wails, the stares, their fleeting touches. They were everywhere, like the Dreadfort, or at Harrenhal. _These ghosts, they are my curse. _They forced his way down his throat in the night and filled up his lungs like sodden rags. _Get off, go away, get away from me. _Always he stopped himself before he choked, or moved too suddenly. He had a wife who liked her sleep. A few steps, a silent shuffle to piss away the terror. A twinge of hate when he passed the Myrish glass. _Pale grey, ghost grey. His eyes. You look like him. _But for the beard he would see more and more of _him_ each day.

_Thank the gods for this beard. Thank the gods for Ser Jonnel. _Ser Jonnel had no cares. Ser Jonnel had a new home, a new lady, and he could make his lady smile. _She likes it when I kiss her awake, and she loves me because I am good. Kind and brave, and I care about everyone. A true knight. _In the evenings he found her flipping through the poems he’d written. _Aye, I wanted to be that man too._ But that wasn’t him. He could no longer read such lofty words without shame. He was a blackhearted craven, one who cared neither for kin nor for country nor for its people. _What sort would thrust further war on the Northerners, on Northern soil besides?_ _A beast in human skin. I am not the man she loves._ But Ser Jonnel could be that man, and he could be Ser Jonnel, and when he was Ser Jonnel, he had no cause for guilt. Jon was brash and loud, with japes in his eyes, not worry. When Mychel had time away from the council he saw nothing amiss. Sansa let him lead her by the hand through the brine-scented streets and looked to him with trust, with want, and neither fretted nor fawned.

It was Ser Jonnel she wanted, but it was Domeric’s name she sighed. Always he would silence her, stopping her voice with his hand or his mouth or his words. There he steered her, there she yielded, there he was in control. _I know what I want and I can have it. I know what she wants and I can make it happen. _He could drown himself in the red and the white and force time forward, mind empty, and not think anything at all. In the tense and joyful hours before he spent, his world ended with her skin, and in his world he could put all wrongs to rights.

_I need this. I need her. I love her. _Then the blinding white would come, and he would crash down, and she would cling to him, and sigh his name again. “I love you,” she’d say. _You are wrong, my sweet one. That man is a lie, and me a fraud. _The joy died slow but it died all the same, and the guilt would rear its head again, and he’d put on his brave face. _I am sorry, Sansa, for lying to you. There is no way you can win. A true queen you would be, but it’s the king you act, and who would have you?_

“Can’t we write my brother Jon? The Wall takes no part, but…” _Jon Snow. There’s a king the North would have. There’s a king even I could fight for. _But he could not fight for Jon Snow, for he was married to Sansa Stark, and he was married to her lost cause. _Defend her rights and shield her body. Lead her with wisdom and share with her all things. Strive forever towards true knighthood. Keep your vows and stand by your choices._

_No man is so accursed as the kinslayer._

He could not do it all. _What a fine husband I make. What a fool husband to a queen. _Such men they called kings. Robbie once said… no_. That cannot be me. Anyone would be better than me. _She should have married Roland Waynwood.

Perhaps this was what the Young Wolf felt. The need to cast off his burdens when he cast off his clothes, and forget his follies in a woman’s arms. He could no longer fault His Grace for Jeyne Westerling. She was a sweet girl, most like. _Aye, Robb Stark, I was wrong to ever judge you._ _What have I thrown away for sweet kisses and soft smiles and a tight pink cunny?_

“You _dishonored _that girl. You will _marry that girl. _You will stay with her, and raise any child, and under _no circumstances _will you run away to take the black. Seven hells. A girl of five-and-ten. You _shock me._ I never would have expected this of you.” _Lord Horton, your anger, it cuts me to the quick. _“You will be _good _to her. The gods only know if this will be good for you.” _She can be, and she would, but I cannot let her. _With gentle touches and soothing words, she’d coax his secrets from him, to comfort him, or at least she would try. _Sansa, can’t you see? If I bare my heart you’ll find it black and rotten._ It was more than selfishness. She’d come to hate him and then she’d be trapped like Mother. _Mother, I promised you, I can’t let that happen. _He had to lie to her, but when he lied, he hurt.

Leeching was the only thing that did not hurt. _Even monsters are right sometimes. _The leeches sucked away the rage, the pain, his cares, all thoughts. _It is all I can do where there is no heart tree._

_Even if ye don’t hear them, the old gods work on ye when ye pray and look into their faces. They turn ye into who ye need to be when their answer comes._ Harry’d told him that._ Harry, my friend, where did you go? I am sore in need of your friendship now. _He was a craven but he could not be. _The gods demand his blood. O gods, kill what is weak in me. Cut out the tongue that begs for mercy. Forge me into the kind of man who does what needs to be done._

In the woods he’d thought that man was coming out. _Sight your prey and loose without hesitation. Be swift, be strong. The most dangerous thing in the forest. _It had started as a mad dash to cover his mistake. _If I look like I know what I know what I am doing they will all believe me. _But in the rush of the hunt and the ancient mysteries of the First Men he’d found solace. _There is peace with the gods of my fathers. _The longer he stayed in the city, the longer he listened to the bells, the less of that peace he had.

His head ached. He missed the silence of the godswood. The bells. They would not stop ringing. _Septs, septs, everywhere in Gulltown. I need another leeching _\- 

“Domeric.”

“Lord Yohn.” Bronze Yohn had ridden up next to him. He cursed himself for not noticing. Bronze Yohn's bushy brows knit together, and his whiskers bounced with each step of his horse.

“My boy. I know – well. All of us, we were shocked. It was quite unexpected. _Hidden too long, _Vortimer said. There are plans to be made, but. I know – the old gods, this must trouble you – ”

“Aye.”

“It troubles me too. You know us Royces. We keep the new gods but we respect the old. We tend the Runestone._ We Remember. _My word, I never expected – this has gotten out of hand – an opportunity, I saw this, to unite us all against Baelish, and we’ve done that, but. This business about the Targaryens, in much of the Vale the kings before Aerys are remembered fondly. Not that I have any love for the boy Tommen or his queen. It is good to cast off the yoke of the crown, but – the lords. Most have lost sight of this was supposed to be about. We can still _use this, _but I fear…”

“Aye, my lord.”

It was good to speak with Bronze Yohn. To know that he was not the only one who hadn’t been snapped up by Vortimer’s zealous fervor. _Jon won’t be, _he reminded himself. _Jon mislikes him too. _He was not alone in his misgivings.

They supped at the Redfort manse with Vortimer the guest of honor. When the wine was poured, he covered his cup. Over his hippocras he mulled over the way forward. _We can still use this, _Lord Royce had said. It was not all bad. _Stannis would never let her keep her crown. _Vortimer promised the finest crop of the Vale’s last harvest too. _Winter is coming and our people starve. _The food was enough to sway his mind. _No food will come from the crown with the Reach in disarray. The Freys will bring little, and Stannis none at all. _

He fingered the charm Ser Sam had given him, the emerald-eyed Maiden he kept around his neck. Until he could sell it or have it reworked it into something that suited him it would serve as a reminder. “That’s yours,” Ser Sam had said. “I won’t have it back from you, Domeric Bolton. Yes, I remember your face. Keep it and remember that the gods hold you innocent of your father’s crimes. They know your heart. And when you ride back North and take your seat, remember the innocent folk you will rule over, and your duty by them.” He could still feel Ser Sam’s muscled hand grasping his shoulder with force. “You are your own man and you will treat them better.”

He pushed his plate away. _I can eat no more. My people are starving and I must feed them. _Next to him Sansa whispered something to Lady Waynwood. It was clear to him that his wife favored her mother’s gods. _Had she married Roland weirwood trees would fall all over the North. They’d drive out my father, but at what cost? Our gods would be gone too. I will not let that happen. _

***

“You should not have spoken to the good septon that way,” Sansa snapped, imperious and haughty. Even from below she looked down her nose at him like some green-scaled shryke from the east. _Woman, I am not a worm._

“I spoke to him the way I’ve always spoken to him. I’ve known that man for years. He does not respect Northerners. You cannot give an inch.”

“When someone offers help they always seek something in return. What if he had revoked what he said about helping us?”

He wanted to scream at her, shake her, wring her by the shoulders until she saw sense. _Please, don’t get swept up with all of them. I’ve already lost Mychel and Cassandra and I won’t have him take you too. _Not his wife. And she had no right to speak to him this way. He felt his blood heating. _No, no, no_. _I’m not him, I’m not like him. _

_Breathe and count to ten. _His jaw was sore when he spoke again. “I had an outcome in mind and I reached it. No harm was done.”

“There will be no septs built in the North. There will be no quarter for wandering preachers. Anything more than stamping out the cult of the red god and you invite carnage on yourself. Do not bother with it.” But Vortimer had only smiled like the seducer he was. “Of course, Lord Bolton,” he’d said. “The knights we send North will shine the Light with their valiant deeds and their upright bearing. And their charity. You cannot win a soul by force. I assure you, they will not do what is not welcome. I will make sure of it.” _I’d like to see you try. _“Perhaps in a hundred years, your grandchildren’s grandchildren will wonder about the Faith that fed their folk and freed their kingdom, and open their hearts to the Seven-Pointed Star.”

_How I hate that man. _

Sansa’s eyes grew hard and cold. “Be that as it may, you had no right to speak before I did. At supper, I told you – I was planning to offer – ”

“I know what you were planning to offer and it was folly.” 

“You would interrupt the Queen in the North and call her a fool?”

_Breathe and count to ten. _He didn’t make it. “You style yourself the Queen in the North? You would sit in the seat of the wolves of Winterfell? And you would raise a sept at Winter Town grander than the Sept of the Snows? Grant license to preachers and wandering septons throughout all the North? The same license that the Starks had forbidden outside White Harbor for thousands of years? The lands between the Wall and Moat Cailin are wide and vast, with little to bind them besides the name of Stark. Take away the old gods of the forest and the Flints of the mountain clans and the Flints of Flint’s Finger share only a name. What has a hunter from Last Hearth to do with a mason in Barrowton, or a frogeater from the Neck, aye?”

She could not answer him. Her eyes grew wide and she stepped back, but he stepped forward to meet her. _One, two, three. _“Give an inch to the Andals outside White Harbor and you are not a Stark at all. Look at you. Even the Freys and Waynwoods look more proper First Men than you. You want to rule the Northmen? A girl of five-and-ten? Oh, aye, some help building a sept will be. Singing of the Mother’s mercy like some southron flower. The Queen in the North. How foolish. How _stupid. _The Northmen will not have it. I tell you, _I _will not have it.” _Better my father than any of that._ She raised a hand as if to shield herself. Her eyes shone and her mouth quivered, but she made no noise. _Stop, _the better part of him said, but the words kept coming and coming.

“Why did the Boltons bend the knee in the first place? Why is it Stark that wears the crown?” Her eyes kept darting back and forth. She did not know. “When the Andals sailed across the Bite, fresh off their conquest of the Vale, Argos Sevenstar said to Rogar, the last Red King, set aside your bronze bitch and take my daughter to wife. Cut down your tree and carve the star into your arm, and we will help you crush the Starks to your west, like we crushed the bitch’s father.”

Then he began to laugh, because he had always found it funny. “The Sept of the Seven Stars that you liked so well. You saw the tomb there. Where do the bones of Argos lie? In the Dreadfort heart tree’s mouth, while his skin likes hanging on our dungeon wall. You see, Rogar refused, but had he taken that offer, the flayed man would fly all over the North, true and fair. But it was not worth it. The whole North is not worth it. Not a single heart tree. The heart tree, it is who we are. Tell me, Sansa, is the heart tree worth it to you?”

_Stop, stop, stop. You sound like a monster. _He checked himself and ran a hand over his face to wipe away the grimace. He made it to ten this time. When he opened his eyes she seemed so small.

She was looking down. “Is that what you think? That you’d rather have your father than me?”

_Gods be good. _He’d said that. He’d made her afraid. He’d ruined all of it_. _His head began to pound, his throat, to ache. “No.” He backed away and staggered into a chair, and bit down on his inner cheek. “No. Absolutely not.” _The gods demand his blood. _“I – ” _I’m sorry. I take it all back. I love you. _But the ghosts had seized his tongue and left him mute.

_Others take me. _He brought a hand over his face. “I’m sorry.” He wished his soul could split from his flesh and shatter his own jaw. “I spoke out of turn, your grace. The North is yours by right. You are neither foolish nor stupid.” He could not bear to see her face. _Don’t come closer, please, don’t. You shouldn’t. _“I’m sorry.”

“No, my lord, you are right. What – what I proposed was folly. The lords of the North would never see a Stark. I should not have angered you so, my lord. I know – I know you were only trying to help my cause…” He hated it. This pleading. He’d’ve rather seen her smile. “I know – I shouldn’t. Build my mother’s sept again. I won’t go anymore. I know you asked me to, I promise…”

He wanted to tell her to stop. _Bite your tongue lest you further foul the air. _He took his hand away and hoped she could see it on his face, but she kept it up. “You are giving up so much for me. The North, your family - it could – it could all be yours, but…” _No. No. No. Speak not of this. No. Please._

“I don’t want it.” _Anyone but me_. “You know I don’t want it.” _Breathe and count to ten. _“I’m sorry.”

She raised a hand to cup his cheek. _Cold. _It was then he realized just how warm he was. He leaned into her touch but thought better of it. _Not now. _He swallowed deeply and stared at the space beyond her ear. Her eyes were like two suns. Blue stars. If he stared too long he’d be driven blind.

“I know,” she said. “I forgive you.” _You shouldn’t. _“I love you.”

“I love you,” he mumbled, and he pried her hand away.

He could not accept her advances. When she palmed his chest, his thigh, his groin, he wanted to be sick. _Not tonight. Not after that. _“I am seeing Maester Helliweg. I would be leeched this night.”

“Shall I attend you?”

“No.” The leeches left him numb, lethargic, but still the rage remained. “Mustard water, Helliweg.” He retched into a bucket and washed out his vile mouth. “Dreamwine, too, if you have it.”

“Only milk of the poppy, ser.”

The stairs swirled far below as he ascended, and then he stumbled into bed. Sansa lay there, curled up like a ball, her hair spread out all across his side. As gently as he could he pushed it all away. _Don’t touch her, don’t wake her. She won’t want you. _The lead in his eyelids dragged them down, and the quicksilver in his hands shook them as he pulled up the furs.

He is at the tiltyard in Barrowton, and he is nine years old. The town’s wooden buildings rise up behind the marquee, sparkling in the springtime frost. “Knock them all down, lad,” Grandfather says. “Come on, now, I know you’ll win this.” Grandfather’s hand is large as it comes down to ruffle his hair, to squeeze his shoulder. He’s on his horse, and then the herald calls his name. _My opponent, who is he? _But the herald did not say. Across the field on a red horse he sees dark plate, a pink greatcloak, a red plume. The flayed man. _Father. _

_I’m better than him. I’ll knock him down. He’ll be eating dust. _He spurs Rhaegar on when the trumpets sound. _Time to go. _With a crack his rival falls. His neck is broken. _I killed him. _He looks to the stands, and there, a woman shouting, clapping, jumping for joy. Mother. He waves and blows her a kiss.

The herald calls his name again and again and again, and one by one his opponents fall. The first is the white horse’s head. _Ser Mark, _he realizes. _A true knight. _The shield shatters, and Ser Mark’s neck cracks too, his helm dented beyond hope of removal. He never gets to see his uncle’s face. Next is the brown horse’s head. _Uncle Rick. _The cheers are all gasps now. And now the black – Uncle Roger – and when he falls, anguished sobs.

_She’s crying, I can’t, I’m not supposed to make ladies cry. Mother, don’t cry, Mother, don’t you see? I won… _With a scornful gaze, Grandfather shoves a crown of weirwood leaves into his hand. He opens his mouth to say something but Grandfather has already faded away, as if a ghost himself. He gulps. Gingerly he trots over to Mother’s box. As he settles the crown atop her head her eyes shine with blood-red tears.

“You were supposed to be a true knight, my Dommie lad, my love…” Her voice is far away, her lips flaking, even as the tears glaze them over, bleeding fast and fresh. Deep wrinkles form around her mouth, her skin cracking dry until it’s as gnarled as a tree trunk.

“Mother?” But there’s only the heart tree, and the distant cries of the Weeping Water.

_No, _he chokes. _No, no, no…_

He falls to his knees and begins to shake. _No, no, I’m not supposed to, they’ll see, they’ll see. _He bites down until it hurts and dribbles the blood into his cupped hand. _Here, here. _He counts to ten and then his breathing’s fine, and then someone else is squeezing his shoulder.

“Dom,” chides Aunt Barbrey. “Still here? Come now, dear boy. You’re late. I told you, we were going to visit the First King today.”

“Can we still go?” Aunt Barbrey looks up at the sun peeking through the leaves. Her scolding mouth softens into a smile and she motions for him to give his arm. “Aye, I think so.” The stairs out of Barrow Hall creak as they descend to Great Barrow’s foot. There’s a stone slab carved with runes shoved into the base of the hill. He shivers. Suddenly he wonders why he wanted to visit this place at all. _There are ghosts here too. And curses. _

“No man may rival the First King,” he recites.

“So they say. Do you believe all that?” Aunt Barbrey quirks an eyebrow at him.

“No,” he hurries. _Yes, _he thinks.

“Perhaps you should,” Aunt Barbrey says.

The spring wind blows and he shuffles back and forth on his feet. “Can – erm. Aunt Barbrey. Could we go back inside?”

“Already? Fickle, fickle boy. Very well then. Up we go.” Inside, they pass a vault filled with Dustin treasures. “Would you like to see?” His aunt’s eyes sparkle with mischief, like she’s a little child too. He nods and she turns the key. The whole room shines with gold. “The crown of the Barrow Kings,” she says, pointing to a spiked circlet behind glass doors. “Willam told me it’s not the original, but I like to pretend it is. That the First King wore it himself.” She unlocks the glass cabinet too, and holds the crown in her hands. “Do you want to try it on? There’s Dustin blood enough in you.”

The crown pulses with something bright, something evil. _A curse._ He shivers again. _A ghost. _“Aunt Barbrey, I don’t want to – ”

“Don’t you? Mayhaps I will then. No _man_ may rival the First King. But perhaps a woman can.”

“Aunt Barbrey – ” He wants to tell her _no_, _no, don’t put it on_, but this is her keep, and he is her page, and he can’t say no, and it’s too late. She puts the crown on her head and at once her face pinches, and the wrinkles deepen, and soon, she has shriveled into golden dust.

_No, _he chokes. _No, no, no…_

He’s running, running, running. _Out, out, I have to get out. _He lunges through the door, and stumbles into the snow.

_Cold. _It bites him when he breathes. He draws the collar of his sable cloak around tight around his neck, the pelt heavy against his shoulders, and wiggles his fingers in his black gloves. The leather is supple, the sealskin, fine and warm. _I’m tall again. _There’s ice on the stone floor, and even amidst the thick white clouds he can see the blazing sun setting behind the triangular merlons, black crowned with golden light. _The Dreadfort. This is home. _Outside, the ghosts could not haunt him. _The wind blows them away._ He takes care not to slip as he advances. _The winter wind, it’s singing_. _The loveliness, it calls._ He braces his knee against the merlon, shields his eyes, and peers down.

_There. It’s her. Sansa. _Clad in a gown as white as the moon and draped in a snowy veil that glitters when she moves. Pearls and moonstone crystals, aye. She twirls around, dancing, singing. Even over the roaring gusts her sweet voice floats upward. There are no words but he doesn’t need them to know. _Come down, _she says. _Come down. _The ice doesn’t matter. He won’t slip. _My steps are sure when I run to her._

By the time he reaches her, he’s hot. Burning. Too big for his breeches. _Her skin, it’s always cool. Her skin, it is my balm. _He fingers the veil and makes to touch her face, but with white-gloved hands she teases him away, the twinkle in her eyes louder than her laughter. _Kiss me,_ her eyes say, but the rest of her is running. _My sweet one, it is no trifle to catch you._

Even through both their gloves her cold hand soothes him. _This fire, my sweet one, only you can put it out. _She pulls him back towards the castle, through the gate, into the keep, into the hall. She holds the wine to his lips. _I’m not supposed to, you know that. _But her eyes sparkle, so he sips it anyway. Then the music starts, and Waymar comes to claim her for a dance, her coy smile a match for his friend’s cocky smirk. _You jape, my friend. Give her back to me. _

“Of course, your grace,” Waymar says, but he hands her to Robar, who hands her to the Knight of Flowers, who hands her to Daryn Hornwood, and then Harry Karstark’s younger brothers, each in turn, and then Cley Cerwyn and Benfred Tallhart and Smalljon Umber. Cup after cup after cup he downs. _I won’t have it. No more._ He cuts in and it’s as it should be. _She is mine. My wife, my queen. _He moves to kiss her but she still has that damned veil. The torches work their magic, just like the sunset. Ice, it looks like. Kissed by fire. Glitter and glow. He tries to paw it away, but she shakes her head, and her starry blue eyes laugh at him again.

_Not here, _they say. _Come with me. _Her cool breath kisses him like a much-awaited breeze. _This fire is still going. _He’s still far too hot. She pulls him into the corridor. _I know this way. _But it’s different. Not tapestries, but skins. Faces, stretched taut, grimacing. Waymar, Robar, the Knight of Flowers. Daryn Hornwood and the Karstark brothers. Cley, Benfred, Smalljon Umber. Lord Halys, Ser Helman, Lord Medger, and lines and lines of soldiers. For a moment, the dread chokes him. _This isn’t right. This isn’t right. _He squeezes her tight like he’s egging her on, but truly, it’s for comfort. _Let’s go, let’s go. _She pushes open the door and bars it shut, pinning him back, ridding him of his garments.

_Close your eyes, your grace, _she croons, and she takes the crown off his head. It falls to the floor with a dull clink. _So cool, so soft. _Her kisses. Chaste light pecks along his face trail downward until they’re no longer light, no longer pecks, no longer chaste. Her hands graze his hips, his arse, the muscles of his thighs, and he’s sighing, sighing, sighing. _Sansa, my sweet one, my lady love. _The moonstones and the diamonds and the pearls press into his palms as he tugs the lace away, and he soothes himself against the silk. Her hair. Then her dreamy kiss stops and the cool air whispers against his cock. She brings his hands to her stays and he plucks away, and he can almost hear a harp.

His eyes trace the form of her, softly curved and slender like snow on a tree branch, and when he sinks back against the feathers, it’s snow there too. Then she sinks down, and his hands sink in, and she reminds him that ice burns. He claims his kiss and chokes. Rotten breath coats his tongue and mottled flesh rips beneath his hands. 

_Eyes just like blue stars. _

_I know how this story ends._

_Stop. Get off, get away, get off of me. _But he can’t stop, she won’t leave, he can’t get out. _I can’t push her, I can’t strike her, she’s a woman, no, no, I can’t. _He’s still too hot, and she is the cold, and he needs the cold, or he will burn. His hips keep snapping upwards, and she keeps squeezing, and his heart keeps trying to flee. Faster, faster, never fast enough. Her skin is so cold, but the heat in him keeps building, and he has to touch her, but he has to get away, and now the heat, his soul, it’s straining at the gate, willing to escape. _My soul, my soul, you can’t, no, no, no – _

He woke with a start and swallowed with disgust. _I should have just fucked her when she wanted me to. _Half ripped, half peeled, the sheets came off somehow. He scrambled to the chamber pot and retched once more that night.

_Stark and Bolton, we were never meant to wed. Perhaps this is why. The North forgot. _They’d stricken his name from the history books. They oughtn’t have. _They should have warned me._

“My lord?” Sansa had woken, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The pillows had tracked her cheeks with lines, and the warmth in her life’s blood had left them rosy. Alive. _It was just a dream._ “Are you all right, my lord?”

“Aye.” _Eyes just like blue stars. _They narrowed. She saw the lie.

“Would you like comfort, my lord?” She studied him with something unsure on her face. It was enough to wake his guilt again.

“Aye.” Warmth he felt when he crawled back to her, when he slung his arm around her shoulder. _For comfort, _he told himself. _It wasn’t real. _He could see the beginnings of a frown forming on her face. She would seek to know his heart again. _No, no, no._ He had to get there first. “I had a night terror. It troubled me.” He squeezed her tighter.

“What happened?”

“You were dead.” He leaned into the pads of his fingers and stroked just beneath her shoulder blade. _A beating heart and breathing lungs and flesh that’s pink and warm._ “I am so sorry. For today. I ought not have spoken thus.” He kissed the crown of her head and let her smell cloud his mind. “I do love you, Sansa. Very much so.” _I have to, I must. _Kisses, that’s what she liked, and her mouth still tasted sweet. _It was just a dream._

She broke away for air, and he ran a finger between her dimple and her chin. “And I love you,” she said. “You are forgiven.” He ignored what she did not give, and when she kissed him again, he forgot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't end up building up a buffer but I wanted to give you all something.
> 
> There is going to be one more Vale chapter. Sorry we've taken so long here, I want to leave the Vale too. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story.
> 
> ETA: Battles are not my strong suit. The killing fields are not a place where my imagination romps and wanders. 
> 
> Right now the outline has bullet points like "faction takes [REDACTED] castle and proceeds directionward". I know having another POV talk about what happens will just be considered a cop out. I don't want to succumb to critical research failure or have the writing seem rushed. I want to do it right because I care about the quality of this story.
> 
> Do any of you know of a forum that I can go to help make the campaign required by my plot a successful and feasible one, or would someone be able to help me walk me through this?
> 
> Willing to offer up drawings in exchange. I will absolutely credit you for your help. You can find my artwork on my tumblr (ladyoflosgar)
> 
> Thanks folks. If you have been sticking around this long, thank you, and if you drop off here, sorry for wasting your time.


	42. Sansa XVII / Domeric XXII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Runestone prepares for war. Domeric withdraws, leaving Sansa confused before they reconcile on the eve of the first armies' departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with this stoic drama king and his gloriously irrational behavior. Catastrophizing and jumping to conclusions and just digging the hole deeper by shutting out everyone who cares about him. He has almost no frame of reference for relationships besides his parents and love songs/stories, which deal with extremes. I don't think he would have bothered to ask his grandfather, uncles, Lord Redfort, etc, "what do I do when I fight with my wife". No point when he wasn't betrothed yet.
> 
> And his hobby is courtly love poetry, which is all about "I love her but I can't have her". That is a very comfortable, lazy emotional space for him, one that's easy to fall back into when there's a ton of other stuff going on.
> 
> Just talk to her bro. [we all know people like this.]
> 
> Also: I have updated two paragraphs in Chapter 40. This revision has Domeric telling Sansa about the price on his head rather than keeping it secret. They already had too much to resolve after their argument in Chapter 41. It makes Dom look less like a jerk.

They returned to Runestone the day after the council ended. That last morning in Gulltown, she rose alone. It was strange. For days and days Domeric had coaxed her into the waking world with soft kisses on her eyelids and her cheeks.An empty bed was a disappointing sight, and a lonely one. Perhaps he was still angry with her. _I should have known I’d make him cross. My husband is a pious man. _She brushed the matted tangle of red away from her eyes and bit her lip. _My mother’s hair. My Tully hair._

His outburst the night previous had shocked her sore. He’d never so much as raised his voice at her before. Not once. _He always speaks so mildly. He always keeps an even countenance. _It was as if someone else had flayed off her beloved’s face and slipped into his skin. The rage, twisted and black and frightening, had called up memories of Joffrey and Meryn Trant and Mandon Moore. Of danger. But just as quickly as it appeared, the rage was gone, and in its place, anguished horror and guilt, and even a hint of fear. He tried to hide it with his hand._ He tried to hide it from me, but I saw it nonetheless. _He kept saying _I’m sorry _and it was clear that he was. _Joffrey and Ser Meryn and Ser Mandon would have never said I’m sorry._

He was sorry, but he had a point, and that point cut her deep. She had a Tully face and Tully eyes. She loved southron songs and southron gowns and southron food and when she left Winterfell she couldn’t wait to be gone. _I never wanted to stay in the North. I left to be a southron queen and everybody knew it. I need the Northmen to see a Northern one. _She hugged herself and thought of Arya, of Jon. Starks on the outside, Northern to the bone. _Nobody would ever doubt Arya. Nobody would ever doubt Jon. _Her idea would not have helped her cause at all. Domeric’s promise from Septon Vortimer had proved that. _Perhaps I should have heeded him. _

_But perhaps he should not have been so harsh. _The pain on his face had shocked her too, and her heart had jumped to forgiveness, to mend at once what had been torn. But she did not want him to lash out like that, to scare her and _hurt_ her like that, again. He was her husband, but she was his queen. _I will ask him. _She hoped it would be enough.

From the direction of the door came a thump and a curse. She rolled over and saw Domeric standing at the dressing table, naked, before the Myrish glass. _Has he been there this whole time? _Most like. He could move silently when he chose. In the reflection she saw a hateful scowl, and then a disgusted sneer. She heard him curse again. Then he brought a hand to cover his face, took ten breaths as was his wont, and sighed deeply. When he brought his hand away, he wore the smile that greeted her every morning.

_A mask_, she realized. _Was all your joy a mummer’s farce, my love? _

He turned around to face her and found her staring. His eyes passed over her, once, twice, and settled somewhere on the bed.

“Good morning,” she started.

“Good morning, your grace,” he replied, shifting from one foot to another, hesitant to approach. She tipped her head to ask for her morning kisses but he did not see it. “We will be leaving very soon,” he said, flat and slow. “We cannot delay. In a fortnight the first of us will be on the march.”

It had been decided the evening previous. “Now we must _rush_,” Lord Royce had stressed. “I had hoped to raise five thousand but there is no more _time_. Baelish will hear of this in _days. _We have taken pains to keep this quiet, but now I must make haste. Scarce a thousand I have ready to siege the Gates of the Moon.”

“Yohn. You’ll have your five thousand. They will follow. From all of us. Lysa is loath to leave the Eyrie. There will be time. We only need a fortnight.” Lady Waynwood had seemed harried too. “I will write to Donnel. Two thousand at least must gather at the Bloody Gate.” But for the scant garrisons they’d leave in their castles to stave off the mountain clans, and the sailors defending the shores, some two-and-thirty thousand men would pour down the High Road under all the banners of the Vale. Then Lady Waynwood had looked to her. "All will know that Sansa Stark rides with us. All will see a conquering queen.”

“And you will be among them? The first on the march?” she asked her husband. _I thought you were to ride with me. _

He blinked. “Most like not, your grace. I meant we will be leaving Gulltown posthaste.” He picked up the hairbrush and motioned for her to sit, like every morning. She rose and did as he bid, closing her eyes and leaning into his pleasant strokes. The silence between them lay thick and cold as the Wall, so she began to hum.

He hit a snag. “That _thrice-damned_ song,” he muttered under his breath, bitter and raw. _The Mother’s hymn. I should have picked something else. _Her eyes flew open and she found him scowling again. Their eyes met in the mirror and his face fell a thousand miles.

“I’m sorry, your grace,” he said. “You may sing whatever you like.”

*

_I have lost her. _He knew it when he found her awake, when he saw her horrified stare. _She said she forgives me, but it cannot be so. She saw my black heart, she can love me no more. _From the moment the ghosts had dragged him from sleep he’d dreaded it. _Apologize again. Explain yourself. Tell her you love her, show it, swear it. Grovel if you must. You look like him but you do not have to be him. Didn’t you always say you were better than he is? Prove it. Never raise your voice to her again._

But the moment she saw him she was afraid. She’d never been afraid of him before. _It’s too late. There’s no point._ And now he’d made her afraid again. He finished brushing her hair and he slipped into Jonnel’s clothes, but he could not muster Jonnel’s face. Not now. Not when his gut was roiling and his heart had beat so fast it had ripped itself free of his veins. _I’ve lost her. I’ve lost her._

If he retched, he’d retch out his heart, blood dripping from his mouth like a hideous beast. Best not, or else he’d try to give it to her, and she’d just fling it away like a heap of dung. He swallowed, but the pain in his throat did not subside.

_Breathe and count to ten. _Flat and neutral, he could do that. He’d always been able to do that. Even when it hurt. Even through the worst pain in the world, when Father flayed his arm. _This is worse, _he realized. _That was nothing. This is worse. _

They had not brought much to Gulltown, so the packing went quickly. He cursed his idle hands and their damned shaking.

“My lord?” she said, feeble and unsure. “You have not kissed me yet this morning, my lord.” He hadn’t. Of course not.

“Only if it is what you want.”

“It is.” _Worry and concern. _For herself, aye. For her fate. _What woman would not be worried and concerned when bound for life to one such as me? _Gently, chastely, he pressed her mouth to hers. Her tongue swept against the seam and pushed its way in, and then she pulled back.

_See, Sansa? You do not want my kiss_.

The pain ebbed away with his morning leeching, but as they rode back to Runestone it surged back like a monstrous tide. The air grew thinner as they passed over the hills, and he found it harder and harder to breathe. He wanted nothing more than to break away from their party and _fly_, but that would not do. Not in the sight of all. He kept his composure by tangling his fingers in Rhaegar’s mane, by focusing on Rhaegar’s smell, losing himself in his gait. _It’s me and my horse. Just me and my horse. Everything’s all right, it’s just me and my horse. _

When they reached the woods the clenching in his chest let up, if only a little. _My gods are here, my gods give me strength. _Perhaps it wasn’t totally hopeless. _I still haven’t apologized yet, or explained myself. If I do, she might see. _Snow had blanketed the lavender field, and what blooms remained were faded, wilting. _I have to give her something, anything. _So he hacked a bunch away with his knife and fell back to ride next to her.

“My lady,” he said, extending his hand. “Here, my lady.” She looked down at it, and her mouth twitched.

“Oh,” she said, but her eyes did not light up. _It’s too late. There’s no point. _“Thank you, Ser Jonnel,” she said, with a half-hearted smile. _She accepts them only because she must._

They reached the castle and he saw to Rhaegar while she disappeared inside. Hay and horse and dung, scents he’d always found comfort in. _Mother and Grandfather and Aunt Barbrey. _Another clench of his heart and he put down the brush. No comfort lay where those thoughts led. _They will not take me back. _He began to whistle Mother’s old First Men song instead, and wrapped his arms around Rhaegar’s neck, nuzzling his head.

“You were a gift,” he said. “They cannot take you back. You’ll be here for me until your last day, aye? You’ll always love me.” His throat hurt. “I’ll always have you.”

Rhaegar whinnied, and Domeric leaned into his pulse. _Two hearts that beat as one. Aye, this is better. _He sighed.

“Lad?” Lord Horton.

“My lord.” _Flat and neutral, you can always do it. _He turned around.

“I missed you at supper, Domeric. This news… I know how you must feel. We did not have our hour the evening past, but…” Lord Horton’s soft eyes narrowed. “Lad, are you all right?”

“Aye, my lord. I’m all right. All is well.” It was all he could say. _I’ve already let him see. He said he knew I could get through this. He said he knew I could weather the storm. That I was strong enough._ _I can’t disappoint him again. _

“Are you sure, lad?”

“Aye.”

“Come to the kitchens with me, then. We’ll get you some food. We’ll have our hour.”

His gut roiled. “No, thank you.” _Don’t let him see, I can’t let him see. _“No. It’s all right, my lord. I am not hungry. Thank you, my lord, but I’m going to the godswood.”

*

Sansa found him in the godswood kneeling in front of the heart tree, his breath puffing white in the light of his dimming torch. He nodded and whispered something inaudible when she sank down beside him. It was not long until she was done praying. His arm was tense as they made their way back to their chamber, saying nothing the whole way.

He still was not himself. Behind his mask something was amiss. _Perhaps today is not the day to ask him not to speak to me so again. Tomorrow, after his mood is lifted. _She touched the button at the collar of his doublet and felt him stiffen, and drew back in dismay. _He does not want me, just like yesterday. Just like this morning. _She’d felt a spark of hope when he gave her the last flowers in the field but he left too quickly for it to last.

“Would you have me do my duty, my lord?” If he did not let her touch him, she did not know how she could help. _It is the only way that I know how._

“No, your grace. I would not ask it of you. It is not required.”

She bit her lip. _I want to lay with you, my love. I want you to kiss me as you kissed me just yesterday. _But it was not to be that night, nor the next night, nor the night after that. Lips cold and still as death, a placid face set with empty eyes, and soft words unfailingly polite. _A second leech lord. This is not the man who saved me, who I fell in love with, who married me. _But perhaps it was, and perhaps she had not cared to see what had been there all the while.

“I told you, it is just his way. Dom goes very cold sometimes,” Cassandra told her, pursing her lips. “It is not just you, this time_. _It’s Mychel and me as well._” Perhaps I should have seen this. _He’d always fallen silent when talk drifted to some subject he did not like, donning a mask of courtesy. _Was the man I love a mask too? Or the man who loved me? _She refused to give that thought quarter, but still doubt slithered in like a snake.

_He never thought it wise to marry for love, but he changed his mind. He chose love over wisdom, and he regrets it, _the snake said. _He regrets marrying you. “_Do not let him regret his choice_, _Ser Jon had said. “Tell him you love him.” She had, but perhaps it hadn’t been enough.

*

“If your father dies in battle, I shall weep tears of joy,” Mother had whispered to him in the cool springtime. She bumped their noses together and gave him dimples with her fingers. They could spend as much time as they liked together when Father was away.

They knelt and held hands before the heart tree at the Dreadfort every day, and Mother would see to his palm while Roger whimpered in his nurse’s arms. _May the krakens cut him down, _Domeric had prayed. _May he sink beneath the sea. _Then everything would be perfect. _The castle full of laughter, and Mother full of smiles._

But it had all gone wrong, and the ghosts descended. The next six moons of his life he’d come to know loneliness so well he could call it a friend. _A friend who’d never left, the chief ghost of them all. _When Maester Uthor showed him the bird that Father and Steelshanks would be coming back he’d sobbed with relief, with gladness. _Even Father is better than no one at all. _

Then Domeric left for Barrowton, and for the Vale, and he’d forgotten just how much they’d hated him. Father. But the ghosts had not gone anywhere. He’d thought they faded, but he’d just made other friends.

_I thought Sansa had banished them. I thought she’d cured my loneliness. But I am lonelier than ever before._

_I miss her. _

She was lost to him beyond a doubt. Every day her eyes grew colder. Every day she drifted further away. Domeric could not help but sense her sorrow, could not help but feel her grief. Just like Mother._ I did this, I trapped her, it’s all my fault. _

_Sansa, should I die in battle, would you weep tears of joy? _How he wished to see her smile again. How he wished to set her free. He wondered if the sight of his broken body would please her, or if she’d prefer his head. _My lady love, if I could, I would, but I cannot, for I must kill him. _

That thought alone gave him purpose, kept him going. He gave himself over to his training and spent himself to exhaustion every day in the yard. _The gods demand his blood._ _I must have the strength to spill it._ Every moment not spent leeching, or making steel sing, or poring over maps with the knights and the lords, he spent in the godswood. Sansa came with him out of duty but among the rustling of the leaves and the plunking drip of his life’s blood, it was easy to block her out until it was only him and the tree.

_I cannot need her as I do. I cannot be led around by the cods. I must let her go. _Once he killed Father, he would take the black. She would be better off. When he lay down the first night it was all he could do not to take her into his arms, kiss her mouth, hold her close, and take what she had offered. Soon, the aching in his chest returned, and the aching in his loins, but he had to resist. _I cannot leave a child behind. _

“A sleeping draught, Helliweg,” he asked. Every night he swallowed it down and collapsed on the bed so he could not touch her, so he could rest for the morning, so he could not dream. _All my dreams would be of her, and I would hardly sleep at all._

It was the sight of her face that ached the most. Her bow lips, pink and perfect, were always set in an expressionless line. Her gaze, ever straight, bore into him, but her ice-blue eyes were sad and empty and cold. _What have I done? How could I have ever hurt her_? It was all his fault.

The loss of her made the worst of his pain, and the most, but not the whole. _My friends, my brothers, they have faded like ghosts. _Jon and Creighton spent every spare moment with their wives. _I would not take such sweetness away from them. _Not when there was a whole campaign ahead. The Hunter ladies had departed for Longbow, and Cassie and Mychel had eyes only for the Seven’s light, ears only for the Seven’s songs. _They will hear me no longer._

_Lord Horton would, _the weak part of him said. The part that begged for mercy. But he could not show Lord Horton. _Not again._

_I am lonelier than ever before. _

*

Runestone rang alive with sound. Around the forge, the clangs of hammer on anvil pierced the air to call down the Smith’s blessings, and around the yard and near the barracks and throughout the wards, soldiers’ boots pounded the ground like the Warrior’s drums. It was so unlike the eve of the Blackwater, all tense and fearful. It was unlike the days before she left Winterfell, too, part anxiety for Bran, part rosy excitement. _This place thrums with purpose. These people are itching for a fight._

_I will miss this place, _Sansa thought. _And I will miss these people. _They would be saying goodbye to the Vale. _Goodbye to Runestone, and to Domeric as well._

“We must take Saltpans,” Lord Redfort had pressed, the day they crowned her in the godswood. “The High Road is too slow. Tarly waits at Maidenpool, he can cross by the Quiet Isle. Unless we engage him, he will block the Ruby Ford. Once he’s dealt with, we will meet the rest of the host.” An army of five thousand, with much of the heavy cavalry.

“I will be joining them,” Domeric had informed her. “It is where my skills will be of use.” He brooked no argument.

It was far too soon to part from him. _Whatever wound there is between us has not been healed. _He had not let her. In the godswood, he kept his silence, and in the evenings he was always _too tired._ It was as if he did not want her to, as if he not only regretted their marriage but loved her not at all_. _She was nearly at her wits’ end with him.

_We will speak tonight, _she resolved. _We will fix this and he will apologize for how he has treated me and he will give me a proper goodbye._

That whole day was filled with goodbyes, with ladies weeping and tying favors around their lovers’ arms. She even saw Ser Mychel and Ysilla share a kiss. _A sweet embrace. That was supposed to be us._

“Goodbye, dear girl,” said Lord Royce, kissing her hand. “On the morrow, I leave you.”

“Thank you for all you have done for me, my lord,” she said. “Once the North is restored to me, I can pay – ”

“Nonsense, my dear! I told you! Stark and Royce, we are friends.” He rose to his feet, towering above her, and smiled.

“And I will be forever grateful for your friendship. May you have good fortune in the battle to come.”

“Of course! Of course! Worry not a whit! We’ll get your cousin down, and your aunt too, without harming a hair on their heads. I swear it on my honor as Royce.” Then their farewell was done, and he left her to spend the day with his family.

She would ride at the head of the grand host down the High Road, next to Lady Waynwood and Ser Walton, and Ryella too. “To parley,” Ryella said. “If there is something a Frey wife can do, it is parley.” Ryella herself had spared not a moment away from her sweet babies.

Ysilla was staying behind. “I’m with child,” she deadpanned. “There’s no place for me on the march.”

“Won’t you be lonely without Cassandra here?” Cassandra would march with them, for Lord Redfort still had not found her a husband.

“Yes,” Ysilla said. “But I’ll have my other goodsister. And all the children.” Sansa envied her that. There would be no children in the camps, and no children meant less joy.

Ysilla sensed her gloom and did her best to provide consolation. “He’ll come to you tonight,” she said. “He must.”

*

“My friend,” came a voice he had not heard in a long while, after a knock on the door. “Walk with me, my friend. I would have words.”

“Mychel. I was not expecting you.” He’d just finished packing his things into his trunk, his saddlebags. _So many things to hide away, that Jonnel Holt should not have. _All his Bolton clothes and armor. Ser Helman’s sword and rondels. They’d be brought down to the camps, and he’d load them onto a cart, tie them to a packhorse, and he’d be off to war again. _To rape and death and so much fire. _He kept Sansa’s favor out, and his book of poetry. _I carried these on my person, but I know not what to do with them. _To see them hurt him sore, but so did most of his memories from the past year. He picked them up anyway.

_My Queen of Love and Beauty. _All the words of all the poems he’d ever written about her filled his ears all at once. _How fair, the love that ennobles; how fair, my lady who sings. As great as my love is, so great my deeds shall be. _On and on and on…

How he’d failed to live up to any of it.

_How desperate I was, then, to prove my honor. How hungry for glory. _Now he felt best when he felt empty.

_When the ghosts closed in, I dreamed of her. When no one else would, I spoke for her. When it all seemed pointless, I rode to her. I won her heart for a moment, but I lost myself, and now I’ve lost her too. Once I kill him, what will I have? I won’t be welcome anywhere but the Wall. _

He opened the door. There stood Mychel, chewing his lip, his sandy hair too long again. Mychel feigned a smile as Domeric pushed out into the corridor, and they began to walk. Eventually, they reached the chambers Mychel shared with Ysilla, who was nowhere to be seen. Laid out in the antechamber was Mychel’s kit. He’d don it on the morrow when he rode out with Bronze Yohn. How glorious a sight Mychel would make, resplendent in red plate. Carved with white-enameled runes and spangled with seven-pointed stars_, _the kit was more beautiful than anything Domeric had ever owned.

“You think that I haven’t noticed but I have. You always do this,” Mychel started, after a while. “You have drawn away from me, my friend.” Mychel sighed, but the pause did not last long enough for Domeric to get a word in. Then Mychel began to frown deeply, and when he spoke again, his voice was strained. “Were you not the one who went on and on about all the men who died for the Young Wolf? And still you act this way? I – you – we both might die, and you would have us part on a sour note? No, I say. I will not have it.”

Mychel paused again and scowled into his fist. “You are my best friend. My _brother_. I don’t know how long it will take to oust Baelish, or when we’ll link up back with the greater host. If this is our last parting I would like my last glimpse of you to have been with a smile on your face. And your last glimpse of me too. I don’t know what has happened, this time, that has caused this rift between us. But I would have you air it out. You are my brother. My friend. How could I meet the Stranger that way? What would I say when I stood before the Father to account for why we did not reconcile?”

_That is why, _Domeric thought. When he opened his mouth, the pain stopped his voice like a gag. “The Father,” he managed. “The Seven. All of this – ”

The dam broke. His voice nearly cracked. “I go to the godswood and I am alone, and you are all _out there_. You all have a _worthy _cause, a _glorious cause. _A war that seems _worth _fighting. And I can’t be a part of it. I _can’t_. I have to protect the heart trees. Protect what it means to be a Northerner. Our way of life. Our gods. For her, for _all _of them…” _Who would lend an ear to such misgivings here?_

_I should have known that Mychel would._

“You have your convictions and I have mine. It has always been thus. But you know I have never let such things come between us. Why would I start now?” Domeric just shook his head. Mychel didn’t need an answer. “Are we reconciled to one another, then?”

“Aye.”

“Good. I am glad we have made peace.” After clasping him on the arm, Mychel paused, but did not let go. “I would share my good news, my friend.”

“Aye?”

“I’m going to be a father.”

“Congratulations.” A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it. _I ought not envy another’s good fortune. _“I am very happy for you.”

But Mychel looked more pensive than happy. “I’d thought… I had thought we’d have more time to come to love each other. I told you, I want to do right by her. By my vows. Though – neither of us wanted it, we – we never hated each other, we’ve known each other all our lives. It is what it is. It’s not like you and your wife – ”

_No_, he wanted to say, _no. _But he let Mychel finish speaking.

“But. When she told me, I realized – everything that I want from my future. Our future. I might not see it. She might not see it. This war, we might both – you know.” He heard Mychel’s breath catch. His friend’s eyes were glassy now.

“Aye.”

“So I had to – I told her about the life that I hope that we could have. The life I’ve dreamed of. I told her everything. So she – we – have something to share. To look forward to when – if – we meet again.” Mychel sighed. “I wish it could have been different.” _You wish it could have been Mya. _“But she is the wife I have. This is the life we have. The only one. I have to make the most of it.”

“Aye.”

Mychel still hadn’t let go of his arm. He tried to pull away to no avail, for Mychel just bore down and squeezed, unwilling to break his stare. “I can’t say if we’ll meet again, but I’m glad I met you in this life, Domeric Bolton. My brother. My best friend.”

“Aye.”

“Dom?”

“Aye?”

“I love you.” Then Mychel pulled him into a tight embrace, and he felt hot salty tears by his chin. Gingerly he wrapped his arms around Mychel’s back. The warmth was almost strange, but it was welcome.

“I love you too, Mychel.”

When they broke apart Mychel chuckled. “Look at me. I’m keeping you,” he said. “I oughtn’t. You’re leaving too. It’s your last day with your lady. Goodbye, my friend. Godspeed.”

_Goodbye._

He made his way back to the guest keep and drew his cloak tight around his shoulders. The book jostled in his cloak pocket, brushing against his hip. That other precious thing lay there too. His throat nearly closed.

_I thought I’d lost Mychel, but I was wrong. He sought to reconcile with me._

_I have to make the most of it, this life we have. The only one. _That’s what Mychel said. _For you, my friend, but not for me. I will live and die and live again a thousand times. _

Perhaps he would live a thousand lives, but only in this one would he share the earth with Sansa Stark.

*

“Your grace. Would you walk with me, your grace?”

Sansa hadn’t expected her husband to look for her, let alone speak to her first. But here he was, hair still wet with snowmelt, hands trembling in his leather gloves, shifting from one foot to another. His eyes darted back and forth, and she could see the muscles in his jaw tense and relax over and over and over. It was the most emotion she’d seen from him in days.

“Of course, ser,” she said, grabbing her cloak. When she took his offered arm, she felt him flinch and stiffen. The twinge of rejection she felt subsided when she saw the apprehensive twitching of his mouth. _He is no longer comfortable with me, _she realized as they walked. _He is afraid again._

She didn’t understand. _I have done nothing at all to cause him fear. _She squeezed his arm in a way he’d once found comforting. “My lord, where do you lead me?”

“The Northern wall,” he said quietly. He kept his concentration on his steps. “I would look upon the sea.”

They reached the top and stepped into the wind. Overhead the gulls called, and the salt air lapped cool against her cheek like the kiss of an eager pup. To the east the gloom gathered, the grey sky stopping sharp against the black sea, while to the west the afternoon sun still gleamed behind the clouds over the proud mountain peaks. To the North lay home. Domeric positioned himself between two merlons and looked out, his eyes following the waves. Then he turned to face her, his mask still on.

“Your grace,” he started. Then he swallowed, fiddling with his gloves. “My lady. Sansa. I - ” He kept opening and closing his mouth, his gaze reeling like a cornered animal. “I.” 

_Spit it out,_ she thought. _Say what you wanted. Say you’re sorry. Say anything at all. _But with every moment his composure slipped until she saw plain dread. His mouth began to tremble, and then he shielded it with his fist. He mumbled into it and then he met her eyes in question.

“I did not hear you, ser. Please repeat what you said.”

A pleading looked flashed across his face and he set his gaze upon the water once more. “I can’t,” she heard him whisper.

_He can’t? He can’t what? _She forced herself to calm the part of her that had grown irate. Anger would be no helper here. _He’s afraid. I must help him be brave. He is weak right now. I must be strong for both of us._

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “You can.” She heard his breath catch and in her grip his pulse sped up. Then he sighed and took his ten breaths. He squeezed her hand back and his heart began to slow.

“The night we were wed,” he started again, stronger this time. “I never intended for it to happen that way. I never thought it was a good idea.”

Her heart began to sink and she felt very cold. _He regrets it,_ she thought. _I knew it. _“You did not want to marry me,” she said. _He’d said so over and over again. _“You love me not at all.” She tried to pull her hand away but he did not let her.

“No!” He wheeled around and his breath puffed in her face. In his eyes she saw her own hurt reflected. “No. I wanted to, but not that way.” He puffed out his cheeks and blew out more air. “I was drunk as a dog, Sansa. I was out of my mind. I never would have chosen that freely. It never should have happened that way.”

Her throat closed. _You made me so happy. _“I thought you changed your mind. You said you did.”

“Aye. I said that. I lied. What else could I do? I had to take responsibility.” Domeric clenched his jaw again. “My father. He has a bastard. I told you about him.” He had. “My father told me about the day Ramsay was made. _As soon as I saw her I wanted her. You will know this feeling one day._ I never… I never wanted to be like him. A man who takes what he wants because he can.” Another squeeze of his hand. _Please listen, _said his eyes. So she did. “As soon as I saw you, I wanted you. I took what I wanted. I have become like him.”

She had no rebuttal, but there was no need, for he kept speaking. “My mother hated my father. He made her afraid every day. I saw him strike her once or twice, for all they tried to hide it.” _Like Joffrey, _she realized. _His father sounds like Joffrey. _A cold and quiet Joffrey with none to rein him in, with just enough restraint that no mob would cast him down. “She told me to me different. To be a kind husband. A loving father. But I made you afraid too. I raised my voice at you. I promised Mother I’d never do that.”

He hadn’t apologized to her, but it was clear that he was sorry. She wanted to speak up but he kept going, his voice raw and angry. “I’m not – I’m not _good. _I’m like him.” The look of hatred she’d seen in the mirror was back. He was looking at the water. The surface lay far below, but there it was. His reflection.

_Oh._

Then he turned to her, his eyes searching. “You aren’t _supposed_ to marry a maiden in secret. Without her guardian’s consent. Not us. The highborn. There are pacts involved. Marriage is more than just love. It’s a life we share. Our families, we’re supposed to share. Swords and golds and land and promises. This – how our marriage happened. My fighting – them. And I will,” he said, with force. “I will. I will fight them. But it’s not supposed to be like this.” He scoffed then. “_I _wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

She’d followed him up expecting less. An apology for his coldness. For how aloof he’d been. Or, she’d feared, the shattering end to hopes of love. This was different. _He bares his heart to me now. _She had to egg him on.

“What were you supposed to be like?”

Domeric clenched his jaw again and closed his eyes, letting go of her and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the pink silk handkerchief she’d given to him, that he’d returned when they met again. _He wore it over his heart, but he stopped when he found me. _Now he clutched it in his fist and stared.

“There was a girl I met. A true lady. She loved to sing and play the bells. She loved the same stories I did. Like Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. She said she knew I’d prove a true knight someday. That was all I wanted. What I worked for. My dream. Everyone else. They thought it was stupid. Foreign. Not for me. That I was more Redfort than Dreadfort. But they said that about my lady too. They called her a Tully minnow. A southron flower. But that mattered not to me, what they said about her. My lady believed in me. In this dream I had. To be a true knight, and a true Northerner. And I believed in myself. And I loved her.” The searching look was back, and something tender too. “I still love her.”

Then he took a deep breath, scowled, and crumpled the handkerchief into a ball. “You named me a true knight, but I am none at all. You say I am kind and brave. Kind – I have not been kind to you, of late. Brave – I am not. I am afraid every day of what is to come. For my friends and for my family. For you. I am none of those things you say I am, that you said you loved me for.” He looked so angry at himself. “I’m not good.”

She had to speak up at that. “You _are_. I _know _you are. You _saved me. _Why don’t you believe me? Why don’t you trust me when I say those things about you?”

*

The accusation was plain. The hurt. They pierced him double.

“You have not heard me.” She didn’t understand. He had to make her understand. He’d been so hopeful when she touched his hand. Even through his glove. _Her touch was warm. _It seemed like they’d connected, like she’d known. _She knew me in Duskendale. _What had changed?

He grabbed her hand again, as if with his touch her knowledge would return. He brought it to his breast, just above his wildly thumping heart. “Don’t you see? Can’t you see?”

_No, _he saw. _No. _Sansa’s eyes were wide and swimming, blue as the unrisen stars. _Confusion, all confusion. _So told the furrow in her brow. And her sweet mouth shone pink and red, ripe as a cherry and chapped by the wind. It parted just a bit in a half-formed word, begging for a kiss.

_I need her to understand. _

Domeric seized her with his free arm and turned her against the merlon, caging her with his legs. The hand on his heart snaked between the buttons of his doublet, pressing past his linen shirt to his skin. With the other she cupped the side of his face while her mouth opened to him, warm and inviting as a steam bath after too long in the cold. She tasted of hope and promises, of everything he’d thought he’d lost. The tip of her tongue swept forward, meeting his with an ardor that set his blood to lusty heat. _Not now, not now. _He had to break away if only by inches and when he did, he found her panting in a half-lidded daze. He tipped up her chin with his finger and brought their faces together so their eyes were level.

“I want to be that man you love. A true knight and a true Northerner. That man I could love too. Perhaps I was him once, but I know in my heart I am not him now. But I want to be. I want to be. I hate who I am now, but I don’t want to.” Nodding. Good. _She understands. _But he had to be clearer.

“I need us to want the same thing. And this is what I want. On the other side of winter there is a life I see with you. Come spring, we will live at Winterfell. We will have tourneys on the banks of the White Knife and feasts and music and dancing in the hall. We will have many sons and daughters, always laughing. Call them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon and even Robb too. Whatever you want.”

She’d heard him. He saw it, but he kissed her again to make sure. _I’ll share my dreams with you if you’ll share your hope with me._

“I want these things, and I need to know that you want these things, that you believe in these things, like me. That you believe in me, so that I can believe in myself. Because when I believe in myself - when I believe that I am doing something good – I can do it. I can do it.” He was pinning her hard against the merlon. Too hard, so he backed off a bit, but not too far.

“Tell me I can do it. That I can get from where I am to what I want.”

*

“You can do it,” Sansa said, clutching him back when he drew away. _I never stopped believing in you. _Not until he’d gone so cold. He hadn’t given her reason, always measured and composed. So much he’d revealed to her, almost too much. On some level it frightened her. This was the man she’d married, the one she’d but glimpsed before_. _Full of doubt and worry, but so desperate to be good. Desperate to be loved. He wore the mask of strength so she would love him. She understood what he was saying now.

_See me as I see myself, and love me as I am. Help me be who I want to be._

“I will help you,” she said. “I love you.” She wound her arms around his neck. When his mouth met hers again, she felt it – all the warmth and closeness he’d held back for days and days. _I missed this._ He’d wasted so much time. She still did not know why. The coiling tightness in her belly, the flames rising beneath her skin – the fingers stroking her scalp and the hard hunger urgent against her legs – she had to ignore it all, to come up for air.

“Why did you grow so cold to me? Why did you draw away on the eve of battle? I understood that – before Robb, you thought – but, now… we are married, now. I don’t understand. I did not like it. It hurt me. Why?”

Domeric’s face grew mournful, the apology clear in his eyes. “You said you forgave me and I did not believe you.” _Don’t look away from me_, _don’t, please._ He held her gaze but his voice grew soft, distant. “I thought it better to leave you be. For your sake and mine.” _It wasn’t. You were wrong. _But she saw he knew that now. “Your presence pained me sore when I thought you hated me.” She did not need to ask why. _He hated himself. _

“I could only ever hate you if you cast my love away.”

When he spoke, his cloudy breath obscured his face like mist. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I forgive you,” she said, for how could she not? _He’s leaving. _“Trust me. _Believe _me. Like I believe in you.”

*

“I trust you,” Domeric said. “I believe you. I love you.” It was impossible not to, not when her eyes blazed so bright. _Stars in the night heaven, the promise of the dawn. _A future where he belonged. He was a fool to have kept this from her before. _Sansa Stark, what a burden you have lifted from me. _

How late it had become – they had been up on the wall so long, too consumed by each other to notice the dying sun, the gathering dark, the growing cold. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close. “Are we reconciled to one another, then? Is all well between us?” It had to be. _We part come morning light. _

“Yes,” she said, squeezing his hand as they descended. “Yes.” _Thank the gods._

*

The bells rang in the morning, but they both rose before the sun. She could not tie her favor around his arm, for he rode as Ser Jonnel, but she saw him take that precious thing she’d given him long ago, and secure it over his breast. Silencing all in her that was afraid, she forced herself to look him up and down_. My husband. _Tall and strong, appearing every inch a warrior. A knight. _He will be all right._

He came to her and they embraced, the last time for a while. “It will be very difficult, the road ahead. When we meet again.” _We’ll kiss again, I know we will._ “I would like to preserve my place among my mother’s kin. Or regain my place among them one day, should I lose it. I would like to make peace among the Northmen, if we can.” Then he backed away, and did not bother to hide his grief.

“I want that too.” She stroked his face and swallowed all the pain. "We can.”

“If you say we can, it will be so.” _So soft it is, my husband’s voice._

“Goodbye, my knight.”

“Goodbye, my lady. My queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been supporting this story.
> 
> Chapter 43 will be a Walda Frey POV and we will be back at the Twins. Chapter 44 will be a Robert POV at Moat Cailin. We will finally get to see Ramsay and the Ryswells.
> 
> Gosh, I am so happy to be done with the Vale. I'm sorry this arc has dragged. I felt it too. I had a bunch of cool ideas planned that fell to the chopping block, resulting in a character-heavy and plot-light segment of story. Lots of worldbuilding and sitting around doing nothing. Ouch. 
> 
> Some stuff in my original outline that got cut because I realized the timeline wouldn't work:  
-Domeric was originally going to travel the Vale in disguise with Ryella, Steffon, and Walton Frey begging for support to avenge the Red Wedding. Walton had a plan to take out Ryman, Edmyn, and Black Walder by inviting them to the wedding of Fair Walda and Harry the Heir.  
-The Faith schism & crusade was going to be introduced when Domeric encountered Septon Vortimer begging for support in the Snakewood, seat of House Lynderly.  
-The causes would merge and all of the lords of the Vale would gather at Ironoaks for Fair Walda and Harry's wedding. The Faith would imprison Littlefinger and put him, Ryman, Edmyn, and Black Walder on trial. Lysa would be imprisoned at Ironoaks and there was going to be a cool crowning scene with Sweetrobin.
> 
> Then I realized that there wasn't enough time in the timeline for that to happen. Yuck. After that, I planned for Bronze Yohn & co to take out Baelish by occupying the Gates of the Moon and succeed before proceeding down the High Road. Then I realized that Lysa could just choose to stay in the Eyrie indefinitely, and from an in-world perspective, holding up the whole army at the Gates of the Moon makes no sense. They'd split up the host to deal with the Riverlands and the North while some stayed behind to take out Baelish.
> 
> On another level, in this story, Littlefinger isn't Sansa's primary villain anymore. He's just a problem, and Bronze Yohn's problem in particular. As much as I want to keep him around Sansa for the coming campaign I can't justify it, because his primary objective is to take out Littlefinger. But he'll be back. 
> 
> On yet another level, I realized that Sansa and Domeric's reconciliation after the Red Wedding as originally outlined was shallow. They needed to get to a point where he allowed himself to be vulnerable around her and trust her with how he feels. In the original outline, I had the bullet point "by this point, their relationship is good/smooth sailing" and there was no way it could have been. It needed to be developed further.
> 
> <s>Lastly, this story is NOT going on hiatus but it's going to be a while before the next update. I am beefing up the outline to plan out every chapter in grainy detail so I don't have to be buffer-dependent. It would be nice to have one though.</s>
> 
> I will post Chapter 43 by July 31st 2020 and no later. Come and harass me if you don't have it by then.


	43. Walda I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walda spends her last day at the Twins.

It was her last day at the Twins, and Mother was brushing her hair one last time. _Good riddance, _Walda thought. _I’ll be free of this dratted crowded drafty castle, and free of her._

She could not wait. For Mother, everything was either _not enough_ or _too much. Walda, you’ve had too much to eat. Walda, your stitches aren’t straight enough. Walda, you giggle too much when you speak. Have a care and be serious. _But Mother wouldn’t matter anymore. None of it would matter anymore. She looked down at her vair-trimmed pink velvet gown that Roose had gifted her, just one piece of finery proper to her new station, so much finer than anything any other Frey girl owned. _Rubies and garnets and cinnabar and rose quartz. A whole castle to myself. _ She was the Lady of the Dreadfort, and her lord husband was well pleased with her.

_I have done better than you ever thought I would, Mother. I have done better than you ever did, and you were Lord Darry’s eldest daughter. _As a girl, Walda had only to look in Mother’s eyes to see her scorn. Gaunt and haughty, always straight-backed and proud, Mother loomed overhead, too well-born for Father, more chaste than Ami, better groomed than Marissa, and with all of the restraint and moderation that Walda and Walder lacked. More pious than anybody at the Twins, more beautiful than any of her daughters, Mariya Darry’s disappointment with her lot in life was plain. She looked down her nose at it all. _You thought you were better than me, Mother, but who’s the high lady now?_

She smiled in the mirror, and Mother thought it was for her. _Never, never, Mother. My smile is not for you._ It grew wider. The lines around Mother’s mouth and eyes twitched out and up for a moment before her well-worn frown returned, and Mother sighed.

“I worry for you, Walda.” Mother pursed her lips. “As I worry for your brother. The situation in the North – ”

“Is nothing my lord husband cannot handle. It all of you who should be worried. Ser Kevan and Lord Tyrion cannot possibly manage to march ten thousand men up the Kingsroad before Ser Walton and the Knights of the Vale arrive.”

The news had spurred half the castle to hasty preparation, and she was _finally _leaving the Twins. After tomorrow, scarce four hundred men would be left in the castles to defend the women and children. North and south they’d march, and to the east and to the west, to Moat Cailin and Darry and Riverrun to boot.

Departure day could not come soon enough. After _someone_ had helped slip stuffy old Septon Grover down the river, there had been a nasty bird from the Sept of Baelor, and a nastier one from Runestone. They had sent Grandfather Walder into an apoplexy and thrust the Twins into an even tenser state of distrust and oppressive closeness. Where polite if false courtesy once reigned, sidelong glances and terse mutterings prevailed, and rumors multiplied, running rampant through the castles like a colony of rats.

“Who do you think did it?” Ami had whispered to her when they were sewing with Lady Jonelle and the Poole girl. That was the day after Grandfather had the letters read before the whole household in the Great Hall.

“One of the servants, most like, or one of the bastards,” she had whispered back, leaning in as far as she could, still not quite accustomed to the amount of space she had. The small hall attached to her chambers in the guest keep was finer than anything on the Crakehall floor. Roslin and Perwyn and Olyvar had been under guard since _it_ happened. Ever loyal to the Young Wolf, they would have been who Walda suspected first. But that was impossible, and many in the Twins had come under Grandfather’s newfound scrutiny. Aunt Wynafrei, for one. Uncle Danwell’s wife. She’d never been close to Septon Grover, but the Tullys were her blood kin, and after _it _happened she’d kicked and raged and screamed bloody murder in the main corridor of the Crakehall floor. Ami had acted out the row for her when they had a moment alone.

_“_Oh, _Walda. _You should have _seen_ her! Running around barefoot in just her kirtle, red hair flying everywhere! She’s gone _mad_, just like that old Lothston witch! Uncle Danwell, if he had balls left before the war started, I swear, she’s torn them off. He came out into the corridor _naked! _You should have _heard_ it! _‘Cat! Cat! _You _Freys_, you _whoresons! _You _shot_ Cat! _Seven times damn _the day I wed into this house of blasphemers...’”

After the letters came, Aunt Wynafrei had been confined to her rooms, and only Uncle Danwell, Lame Lothar, and Ser Ryman were allowed to speak with her.

In the small hall, Ami’s eyes had darted back and forth, and Walda felt her sister’s breath hot on her ear, her embroidery hoop nearly spilling out of her lap. Her voice dropped even lower. “You don’t think it was one of the Northmen?”

“No,” she’d asserted. “All the Northmen here belong to Roose. It must have been someone from the inside.”

She’d heard that Cousin Arwood and Fair Walda had been questioned too, he because his wife Ryella had signed the letter from Runestone, she because her father Ser Walton had written the damn thing. But Uncle Hosteen had spoken up for his son’s loyalty. _What else could she do? _Walda instantly recalled Uncle Hosteen’s quick jump to his good-daughter’s defense. _She is heavy with child, confined in Bronze Yohn’s keep, her children Bronze Yohn’s captives. Her hand was forced._

Cousin Arwood had been restored to freedom of the castle forthrightly.

It was not the same with Fair Walda, who Grandfather was keeping close, a captive of his own. _How far the high have fallen. They take cues from Tyta now. _Walda had smirked and relished the news. _Once the pride of Grandfather’s loins, now little better than a scullery maid, scraping away an old man’s nightsoils. _Before the apoplexy had addled his wits, waiting at Grandfather’s beck and call might not have been so bad, but now Walda could almost pity the other girl. The Lord of the Crossing grew more irritable by the day: where once he stood firm in his intent to ensure all his brood a place at the Twins, now every day he seemed to threaten to have someone new thrown out the window. No Freys or Frey bastards had met that fate so far, but more than one retainer had found their faces planted squarely in the Green Fork’s muddy silt. And he could no longer control his bowels.

Fair Walda’s fate was the only good thing to come out of Grandfather’s rapid downturn. _From this family Ser Ryman has less respect than he has trust, and there was little enough of that to start with. _Ser Edmyn and Black Walder and Petyr Pimple had less; it was all well and good that the latter two would be sent west to support Ser Daven and Ser Emmon to root out the Blackfish, with Ser Edmure chained in tow. _There are as many quarrels among those four than among the rest of us. _Those who remained might count their departure a blessing, but the situation inside could hardly be called an improvement. _Lame Lothar rules the Twins now in truth._

Uncle Lothar had been a frequent sight in her lord husband’s chambers, but of late he’d hardly shown his face in the Water Tower. _He must be very busy, _Walda had thought at first. _Now that Grandfather has taken ill. _Very quickly she was disabused of that notion.

Lothar had knocked on the door to the small hall one morning. She’d known it was him by the uneven thuds of his footsteps and the sharp tap of his cane. “A bird,” Lothar had said, shifty-eyed, nervous. “From Lord Ryswell.”

She’d eyed her husband in silence and at once knew something was amiss. Though his eyes and his smile remained even and mild, the muscles in his jaw clenched and a vein rose at his temple. He remained silent a moment before speaking.

“This letter has been opened,” Roose noted.

“It has,” Lothar said, sweat beading at his hairline. “In light of recent events, my lord father has decided monitoring any birds into the castle is a… ah, a _necessity_.”

“Quite,” Roose had replied, his smile terrible in that manner Walda loved. She shivered with excitement when Lothar stepped back in fear, mumbling “by your leave, my lord,” and ambling away.

She watched his eyes pass over the parchment and his lip curl just so. _These are not good tidings._ “Shall I send for Maester Brennet, my lord?”

“If you would, my lady.” His next remark surprised her. “It seems my son has not shown his face in the Vale,” he said, his eyes, as always, shining with mystery. “We must equip you to rule the Dreadfort in my stead. And redouble our other efforts.”

At the memory of their other efforts she could not help but grin again, and raise her eyebrows in the mirror. But this time Mother took her meaning. There it was - Mother’s exasperated sneer, her nostrils flared in disapproval. “Walda – ” Mother started. But she would not hear it.

“Lord Stannis could not hope to withstand the might of the whole North.”

“You will not _have_ the whole North, Walda,” Mother snapped, tugging the brush back. Wispy yellow hairs came away in the coarse bristles. “That is what I have been trying to tell you.” Mother seized Walda’s face and turned it so their eyes met.

Like the rest of the Crakehall floor, Mother and Father’s chambers were damp, cramped, and sparsely decorated. Walda’s gaze flew upward to the water stains on the stone ceiling. Anywhere was better than Mother’s face.

“Look at me, Walda. Listen to me.” Mother squeezed Walda’s cheeks together in that way Walda hated. “The situation in the North will be _very difficult _for you. What happened – they _all detest _what happened. Guest right – it is far more sacred in the North than it is in the south. They do not keep the Faith of the Seven in their frozen hell. They do not believe in forgiveness. In making peace. They only know conquest and vengeance.” Mother’s grip loosened up, and she cupped both sides of Walda’s face, almost tender. “My daughter. You were born a Frey and you are wed to a Bolton. You are hated already, and you have not set one foot on Northern soil. Have a care.”

Walda said nothing.

“Few men can go with Hosteen and Symond. Only a thousand. You will be lightly defended – _Walda. Pay attention to me. _It would be different if the Stark girl were not here. Now, half the North will be vying to cast your husband down, to kill poor _Elmar_, to wed the girl and take her claim. They may even well make common cause with _Stannis_ – ”

“I _told _you, Mother. My lord husband has it all well in hand. What Northmen that have not arrayed behind him were broken beneath these walls.”

Mother would not let go, and she kept talking. She sighed, and dropped her gaze for just a moment before dragging their discussion on further. “That may be,” she said, through gritted teeth, her brow furrowed. “He might repel all his enemies, and never fall in battle. But what after? He is old. Older than I am, older than your father. Almost thrice your age. What if he passes in his sleep, or of a chill, as old men are wont to do? Few are lucky to be so long-lived as your grandfather. What will happen then? You will be alone in a foreign kingdom, surrounded by enemies, far away from any friends.”

“My sons will take care of me. Our sons. None could harm me behind the Dreadfort’s walls.”

“Your sons will protect you, you say. And what if your husband passes when your sons are small? Tell me, Walda, who will protect you when the Northmen come to take their vengeance?” Mother took her hands away, then, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples. “You speak as one blinded by love’s fair and fragrant clouds. Come now, girl. I know you are smarter than this. Look with your _eyes_, not with your heart.”

_If I say nothing, she will stop talking to me_. But Mother didn’t stop talking.

“It would have been better had Ser Domeric been found. Better all around. Knighted in the Vale, familiar with the south and our ways. He might have let you keep our way of life, might have let you teach the Faith to your children. But more importantly, he would have _protected_ you, as young men protect their fathers’ widows. He would have _protected_ your sons and daughters. Helped secure their futures. And any friends House Bolton has – they are _his_ friends too.”

Walda frowned at that. To her face, Ser Domeric had been kind and courteous, if a sad and lonely drunk like Father. He’d kept up correspondence with her before he disappeared, telling her all about the Dreadfort and the North. Anything she asked. _But he was just like the rest of them when it mattered. _She japed as much as could be courteous as she would to any other high lord’s son, and then she saw it in his eyes. The apology. _He thought I was ugly, all he saw was fat. He looked to Fair Walda and Roslin and Alyx instead. It was the pretty girls he wanted. _And he’d been _terribly_ rude to Ami at her wedding. She could forgive him, she could tolerate him, but she could never _like_ him, not after that. After Roose, Ami was the soul she loved best in all the world.

But she hadn’t wanted Ser Domeric _gone_. She could tell it gnawed on her lord husband’s mind, though he spoke not of it. After the letter from Lord Ryswell came, she’d learned quickly not to mention her stepson’s name lest his mild mask fall to a further chill. Still, she could not help but see the whole thing to her advantage.

“They say he is dead, Mother. _My_ sons shall rule the Dreadfort.”

Mother pursed her lips and flared her nostrils, exhaling sharply. “I hope that is not so. For your husband’s sake if not for yours. You said he lost other children. How could you be that cruel? I pray you never know that pain.” Walda felt a pang of guilt, for the sister she’d never known, the one who had been born dead. She flushed, and felt the sweat begin to gather beneath her breasts, and between them. But she schooled her face and kept silent. She could not let Mother see a victory.

“_Pray_, Walda. _Pray_ to all seven gods that he returns.”

“Even the gods would not raise the dead, Mother. Wights are unholy. You taught me that.”

Mother’s eyes filled with scorn. “_Walda_. Have a care and be serious.” Then Mother rose. _Finally, finally, this will be over soon. _But she only stepped over to look out the grimy window. “Your husband’s bastard. I spoke to the Ryswell boy about him. Robert. Ramsay Snow is his name. A raper and a murderer, with at least one plot on Ser Domeric’s life to his name. He’s had designs on the Dreadfort since the day he drew breath. Tell me, Walda, do you think your children will be safe while Ramsay Snow walks free?”

“Roose will dispose of him should he ever seek to harm me, or our children.” The words came swiftly, but the heat came swifter. And the sweat. _I have nothing to fear from Ramsay Snow. _

“How obstinate you are. Stubborn as a boar. Won’t you listen to your lady mother? One more day and who knows when you’ll next hear my voice.” She could hear Mother’s huff from all the way across the room. “It bears no repeating but you never seem to heed the words. You must reduce that girth of yours. You know what Maester Brennet said. Your courses are irregular. Too much fat sets the humors out of balance, and what’s more, if you eat too much, a babe could grow too large for even Crakehall hips to bear.”

This time, the heat came from anger. Her shift must have been soaked with sweat by now. _We’re almost done. I can feel it. _She held her tongue.

“Once you reach the Dreadfort I would like you to send your brother home. When the war is done at the latest, but as soon as you can manage it. Ramsay _Snow _might have been blooded saving Winterfell, but he is no knight. We’ll find Walder someone more appropriate to squire for. The next Lord Darry must needs be anointed by the Faith.”

“Darry belongs to Ami.”

“Darry belongs to _me_,” Mother countered. “Come here, girl. Your lady mother is done now. You will be free of me in just a moment.”

Walda rose and shuffled over to the grimy window. Below, the rain had stripped away the night’s white frost.

“Look at me, Walda.” She saw a greying brown hair, a fine-boned face lined with wrinkles, a frowning mouth, tired eyes. An old woman in drab colors. _Not so beautiful anymore, Mother. Ami outshines you by far. _Mother sighed and cupped her face again, gripping with both hands. She fought the urge to recoil. “I do love you, Walda. My daughter. I _do_ hope to see you again. And your children.” Then Mother tipped her face downward and kissed Walda on the brow before pulling her into an unwelcome embrace. “I love you, Walda.”

Walda stiffened until Mother stepped away. “Am I free to go now, Mother?”

“You are.” She hurried to the door.

Ami’s room was not far, and she knocked their special knock. Her sister’s face appeared, and Walda stepped inside.

“How was it?” Ami asked. Ami pulled on the gloves and cloak that hadn’t been packed up yet.

Walda rolled her eyes. “The way it always is with her.” Then she huffed in her best imitation of Mother and joined her sister in joyful giggling.

“I’m ready now,” Ami said, and they linked arms. _One last look at this dratted crowded drafty castle. _One last walk together.

“Did you try it? The last trick I mentioned.”

_Tell me, tell me. _The words sparkled in Ami’s eyes, cheery, hungry. Walda blushed. “Not yet – ”

“Oh, _boo_ you, Walda! You can’t very well tell me over raven.” At Darry, Lothar wouldn’t be there to read it, but Mother would.

“Tonight,” she said. _Tonight I will be bold. _“Before we break our fast tomorrow. Before we leave. I’ll tell you then.” She squeezed Ami’s arm. It was quiet in the corridor, and before their feet the sunshine cast squares of light onto the stone. “No more rain,” she noted. “Let’s see the fountain. One last time.”

The Princess Rhaenyra Fountain was Walda’s favorite spot in all the Twins. Ami’s too. When summer reigned and the sun blazed hot and high, they’d run out into the courtyard, shouting to the clouds, the mud squelching between their toes as they stripped down to their shifts, ready to splash into the bracing cold. “I’m Princess Rhaenyra!” she’d shout, pushing past her cousins.

“No, _I’m _Princess Rhaenyra,” Fair Walda would say. “I’m the prettiest.” And she’d make that famous pout that old Lord Forrest had immortalized in stone.

“You can’t be Princess Rhaenyra,” Ami would counter. “Only _my_ Walda can. See, her breasts are nice and round like the Princess’ were. You – well, _look_ at you. You’re flat as a board.” At two-and-ten, when she hadn’t been as thick around the middle, Walda had been of a height with the princess, and her bosom of a size. _The Princess grew fat as she grew older too. And yet men died for her._

“And she was like _me_,” Ami had said, giggling as they wiggled their toes, perched on the fountain’s edge. “She _liked_ to go to bed. Just like a man.” She’d had the Lannister twins and Ser Criston Cole and Ser Harwin Strong and Prince Daemon Targaryen too – half the knights in the Seven Kingdoms. “Had she been queen it would all be different. No one… no one could say anything about her. Not with the threat of dragonfire.” Ami had grown wistful, then, all those years ago. “No one could say anything about me. Like no one said anything about old King Robert. It would all be different.”

Now it would all be different too_. _Light drizzles set small circles rippling on the water’s face. _Rain again. _“I’m going to miss you, Walda. You’re the only one not coming with us.”

“It’s not everyone,” Walda said. “Walder will be with me.”

“Yes,” Ami said, squeezing her hand. “But it’ll all be different. You’re my best friend, Walda. I always thought…” _You’d never thought I’d wed. You’d never thought I’d leave you. _They were always supposed to be together. Ami and Walda. Even when Ami had lived with Pate they’d seen each other once or twice a moon. Sevenstreams wasn’t far. “I never thought I’d be alone.”

“You won’t be alone, Ami,” Walda said, squeezing back. But she knew what Ami meant. Father and Marissa were no fit refuge from _her_. _She’ll be alone with Mother. _For all that she’d defended Ami’s new station, she knew Mother had the right of it. _The King might have signed the order, but the King is just a boy. The people of Darry remember Mother, and know Ami not at all. They remember that Ser Raymun and little Lyman died at the lion’s claws. There will be no love for Lord Lancel, and ten thousand westermen will only stoke fear. _What was more, Mother and the Darry men were very pious. Would Mother betray Ami and the Iron Throne when the Faith came marching down? _With Ser Lancel out of the way Walder can be lord, just like she wants._

“Walda?” Ami let go of her hand and lay her head on Walda’s shoulder.

“I was thinking,” she said. _Thinking wrong. _Mother wouldn’t do that to Ami. Mother ranted and raved about the cowardice and greed of the Most Devout who’d fled to Gulltown when the true High Septon sat in the Sept of Baelor. _They denounced the Targaryens. Mother loves the Targaryens._

“Mm.” Ami looked up at the pouting princess, seeming to sweat in the strengthening shower. Then she shook her head. “Back inside, I think.”

They passed back into the keep to escape the rain and shared each other’s company until the sun went down. Her packing went quickly; Walda had few possessions to her name besides the things that Roose had given her. Ami’s went more quickly still. Marissa came to join them both, for her things numbered the least of all. It gladdened her heart to spend time alone with her sisters. Just three days’ past, at this hour, they would have been sitting in the small hall, sewing with Lady Jonelle and Jeyne Poole, as they did every day.

“Watch them,” her lord husband had instructed her. “Tell me what you hear.” But since Steelshanks had arrived with the Poole girl in tow, she’d been as meek as a mouse, brown eyes always down. All her words pertained to sewing if she ever spoke at all.

Lady Jonelle was another matter. Before _it _happened, she had been content to speak with Walda and the rest of them, amiably enough, if softly, slowly. Walda had even comforted her when the news of her lord father and lord brother’s deaths had come. Now no such closeness came from the older woman. It was subtle, but her eyes had dulled, and her smiles too.

To Roose she reported the change in Lady Cerwyn’s manner, but that was all there was to say. If Walda hadn’t a practiced eye for ones who relished not her company she might have missed the change wholesale. Walda could ask anything she wanted about the Northern people and its wild climes, for Lady Jonelle spoke just as freely to her after as before. If her support for Roose was a mummer’s show, she played it to survive. _She misliked Robb Stark, but she needs Roose Bolton. No matter how she feels she must stay high in his regard. _The Cerwyn forces were all but broken. Her castle would be dust without the Dreadfort men.

She knew the Northmen loved her not. She knew they loved _Roose_ not. It did not matter. They were afraid. She understood that. She had grown up at the Twins.

_Roose has the Northmen well in hand._

At supper that evening, with what nobility remained of the Northern host, the fear was not so palpable. The lot of them spoke with rough voices, and if they laughed, the sound pierced harsh and loud. Quick to anger, quicker to scowl, always brusque about their eating. At the Twins they hurried through the Smith’s prayer before meals but the Northmen did not pray at all. When the cupbearers and the serving maids came with food, they’d watch, eyes shining, hands ready to jump at their knives like famished beasts. _Mother said the Twins were uncivilized and graceless, but these wild folk care less for ceremony than we do._

Her lord husband was different. All his motions were deliberate, all his tastes particular. _Grapes and hippocras, always, always._ You could almost call his neat table manners dainty. He scanned his plate with his eyes before he started as if to mull over his choice, and ate as if he had all the time in the world.

Walda liked to take her time eating too. To indulge in too much too fast was the straight road to a bellyache. She’d learned long ago that if you always kept a little on your plate, eating little at a time, you could sample many more dishes than if you tucked in all at once. And if you grazed rather than gorged, none could take issue with the amount of food you had at any moment.

She sat at Roose’s side and watched her fellow diners as she helped herself to another bite of trout. _Watch, Walda_. That’s what her lord husband always said. On Roose’s left side sat Walton Steelshanks, the Dreadfort captain of the guard, and he sloshed down ale with plain enjoyment. Further left still sat more Dreadfort men, and Karl Greycliff and the Karhold captains, muttering to themselves in their rolling Northern brogues. She did not find their way of speech so incomprehensible anymore. To her right sat Roose’s namesake of Ryswell, his young goodbrother, picking sullenly at his food. _He had an outburst several weeks past, but he came groveling back._ Robert Ryswell and Ronnel Stout must have talked some sense into him, if a bird from Lord Ryswell hadn’t. _None here ought challenge my lord husband._

Robert Ryswell and Ronnel Stout themselves were shouting requests at Roslin’s singer while Elmar trailed behind. Roslin couldn’t very well make use of his services from inside her husband’s cell. _He came for the wedding and he never left. _Walda almost wished he would. At first she’d been delighted – on the Crakehall floor only Alyx and Alesander ever made music, and paid singers were a luxury reserved for Grandfather’s special feasts. But now Pate the Pretty Plucker’s presence grated. _If I hear the same set of songs for another night straight my ears will bleed._

Beyond the barrowmen sat quiet Lady Jonelle, her husband, and her knights, the Poole girl nestled snugly among them. She ate as she sewed: with a trembling hand and downcast eyes. _These will be lady companions on the march Northward._

Them, and the horrid Stark girl.

_Mayhaps I will be all alone._ Again she felt the heat rising beneath her breasts. _They will be eating together. My family. Ami_. She’d demurred when invited, because Mother was to be there, but now she rued her choice.

_Uncle Hosteen and Uncle Symond are coming with us, _she noted. _But tonight they eat with the rest. _She shifted in her seat.

“You are finished with your supper, my lady?” her lord husband asked, an eyebrow rising just so.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. He touched her hand and she knew the sweat was beading beneath her arms, under her rump, everywhere.

“Tell your lord husband what ails you this night.” He smiled mildly.

“I would bid my family farewell, my lord.”

“Of course, my lady.” He helped her from her seat. “I will see you when we retire.” 

Steelshanks Walton escorted her out of the Water Tower and to the Great Hall. _It looks so large with only us._ When the doors swung open, Father raised his tankard of ale and motioned for her to come closer. She edged her way past Serra, Sarra, and Little Bee and reached him. 

“Walda!” He shouted. “Ami! Come here. My girls!” Father _hicced _and slung his arms around their shoulders. “Who would have thought? _Lady Bolton _and _Lady Lannister!_” Ami tugged away from him as quick as was polite, but he wrapped his arms around Walda and squeezed.

“’M so proud of you, my Walda,” Father slurred, his wine breath muggy against her cheek. “Uhlovyou.” Then he turned away. “Hosteen!” he shouted. “T’care of m’girl, Hosteen.”

Uncle Hosteen appeared above her shoulder and clapped Father on the back. “On my honor, I swear no harm will come to her.” He crushed his form to both of theirs and joined their embrace. “And you see to the rest of this family, my brother!” All knew that Arwood and Uncle Raymund would be doing the protecting, and that Father would be little help at all_. Uncle Hosteen, affectionate to the point of flattery._ Before she’d been wed, aside from Father and Ami, Uncle Hosteen was the only one to ever call her beautiful._ How sweet it will be to ride with him, but he’ll be leaving too. When the war is done. _She could not get used to his company.

Breaking away from Father at last, she caught Mother’s eye next to a flash of red. _That’s Aunt Wynafrei. She’s been let out. _Uncle Hosteen must have persuaded Lothar for Danwell’s sake. Mother raised her hand in dismissal giving a curt nod before Walda left to sit between her sisters.

_Watch, _Roose had told her. _Listen. _If there was one skill you learned at the Twins, it was to keep your tongue wagging while your ears stayed open. She giggled and squeezed Ami and Marissa’s hands under the table, focusing in on Mother’s hushed words.

“You say she’s a pretender?” _She. _There were only two ‘_she’s _that any would call a pretender, and Daenerys Targaryen was halfway across the world. _They speak of Sansa Stark._

“I say it is _more like than not_. They said she jumped, after all. And my mother – my brother Danwell tumbled Kella Royce and caused a scandal. But Mother – she had higher aims for my brother. She never wanted them to wed. It would have been just like her to have baby sent to Maris – ”

“Softer, Wynnie.”

Aunt Wynafrei’s face, gaunt after too long ill-fed, flashed in apology. Walda had to struggle to hear now. “This business with the Sept of Sevenstars. Harrenhal – it is my seat, if they do away with Baelish I will not complain, but – their stated goals. Their aims. Bronze Yohn, we saw him at the Hand’s tourney. The girl was born in his keep. He knew what _she _looked like, he saw her in the capital, and if the girl could pass – Whent blood is Whent blood. This mission the Faith has called, it bears the Seven-Pointed Star but I say it’s carved with _runes_ – ”

“And of us?”

“Arwood is our best chance at finding out the truth. Bronze Yohn would not kill his niece’s husband without cause.”

“That’s not what I asked you, Wynnie.”

Aunt Wynafrei was silent for a moment. “Whent blood is Whent blood.”

Walda had heard enough. She’d have to speak to Roose about it. She giggled at the next pause Ami and Marissa afforded her.

Ami raised an eyebrow and tugged on Walda’s sleeve, whispering deviously into her ear. “Don’t forget, or I shall be _very cross_.”

“I won’t,” she assured. Walda excused herself and busied herself with goodbyes.

“My regards to your children,” she said to Arwood. “Kiss baby Hostella for me.” Her cousin obliged her and made his farewell. Aunt Lythene and Uncle Lucias and their children had long departed for Vypren keep, but she broke Aunt Bethario away from her dance with Uncle Symond to greet her too, and Alesander and Alyx and Bradamar. Uncle Danwell and Aunt Wynafrei gave their stiff well-wishes, and Uncle Raymund and Aunt Beony honeyed words while the twins and the little ones hounded her around the legs.

“Goodbye, Walda,” the little ones said.

“G’bye, Walda,” Father slurred weepily.

“It’s not goodbye yet, Merrett,” Mother said. “We’ll have our last look tomorrow.” Walda waved at her parents and her sisters and hurried to the Water Tower.

Roose wore just his shirt and breeches when she found him poring over a map at the writing desk in their chamber.

“My lord?”

“My lady.” He rolled up his map and turned around, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. On another man the rotation of his head, smooth and silent like an owl’s, would have seemed slow, but Walda had spent enough time with Roose to know she received his prompt attention. “You wish to retire now.” The white linen floated, abandoned, to the floor, and her lord husband rose.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “But there is – I would make a report first, my lord.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. My Aunt Wynafrei was at the feast. She was speaking to my mother. She believes that – that the girl crowned at Runestone is a pretender. Her brother Danwell’s natural daughter by a junior Royce. Bronze Yohn’s niece. The girl was raised at the Motherhouse of Maris.”

“How interesting,” Roose said, amused. He looked her up and down before stepping towards the great four-poster, just one pace. Walda felt her breaths quicken and her heart begin to flutter. “Very good, Walda. Thank you.” His pale eyes darkened and she could tell the time for talk was done.

“My lord – there is, also – ”

“Yes, my lady?”

“There is another trick. That my lady sister showed me.” _Bold, I must be bold. _“I would show you, my lord.”

She closed the distance to her husband and made like she was about to curtsey, but curtseys did not end kneeling on the floor. She smiled up at him, and he smiled in return, the wicked leer that he wore just for her. His gaze rested not on her face, but on her bosom. _Of nature’s gifts they are your best feature, Walda,_ Ami told her, _but your laughter and your cheer are far more important. Enthusiasm can cover over many flaws._

She started at her laces and breathed free when the constraints were gone. Her shift was damp, as she’d expected, but not quite so that she had to peel it off. Next she worked at her husband’s breeches and giggled again, because laughter gave her courage. She tugged down the garment as if she was unwrapping a satchel of berry tarts from the kitchens and licked her lips as if she were about to eat, taking him in her hands.

“This is not a new trick, my lady,” Roose whispered.

“Yes, it is, my lord.” Walda hefted her bosom into her hands.

_Your husband is an older man so it may take him a little while to be ready. Much longer than a green boy. But that means he’ll last longer too, and that’s always better for a lady. _That’s what Ami told her. She did not know how long she spent there kneeling on the ground, sighing happily with her mounds around him, but it did not matter, for Roose became ready, and she did too. Soon enough he took a deep, shaky breath and placed a hand on her shoulder, grasping firm.

“That’s enough,” he said, and she knew that it was time. She pushed the pelts aside and clambered onto the downy featherbed, and Roose climbed on. She shuddered with excitement when they joined. _Practice with me, Walda. _Ami had coached her. _Make sounds like this. If you make them when you don’t feel anything they’ll be second nature when you do. _Ami was right, for they were second nature now. She didn’t even need to try at Roose’s tweaks and gropes. His hands left her skin tingling, warm, wanting.

Sweat-slick and panting, she squealed when her peak burst from her belly to her toes. It was but a moment before she felt Roose twitch within her, one, two, three, filling her woman’s place with his hot seed. As she waited for her blood to slow down, she sent a quick prayer to the Mother for a babe.

“Did you know, Walda,” Roose said, after he rolled off of her and caught his breath. “I do believe I like you best out of all the wives I’ve had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed Walda's head because we'll be back here again before too long. I am sorry if Roose and Walda's marital relations at the end was an unpalatable read, I was uncomfortable too, but I thought it necessary character development.
> 
> What do I even say in the author's notes, I forget what to put here lol. I guess the chapter count is 'provisional' in the sense that some might end up being split. I'm confident in 76 chapters as a rough estimate though and I don't want to go over 80.
> 
> So we don't have a TWOW yet folks, who could have guessed. I want to beat GRRM to the punch so the blend of AU ripples and tinfoil takes here don't get jossed to oblivion but I'm not going to rush content. I'm aiming for one chapter every two weeks though with the next chapter hopefully coming out on August 14.
> 
> If we do get a TWOW before I finish I am going on a break to read the book just as a heads up (but I'm sure most ASOIAF fic writers and readers will too).
> 
> My kid took 13 unsupported steps in a row today and it was mind-blowing because I'd never seen her do even one. I swear, being a first time parent is absolutely magical.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story.


	44. Robert VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eager to see his grandfather, Robert arrives at Moat Cailin with Roose Bolton's vanguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for a graphic description of flayed corpses.

_His name was Ser Donner of Gulltown. A lover of music. He could have served a high lord, but a hedge knight’s life he wanted. Strange, that one – I could not understand. A young man, he was, dark of hair and pale of eye, tall and with a noble face. A lord’s by-blow, most like, who’d never known his father. His wife – well, his wife was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, and when I was with Lord Gyles I sang for the Queen. He said she was a seamstress, but she must have been a whore. No seamstress would have a face like that. Or a singing voice. A Valeman from far away – he might not have known what sort of girl worked on the Street of Silk._

_What did she look like, Pate? The most beautiful woman in the world._

_A young girl, tall and pale, lips like cherries and eyes bluer than the sea._

_What color was her hair?_

_I wouldn’t know. She covered it._

Pate’s words had sounded in Robert’s mind through the gates of the Twins and up the Kingsroad. They haunted his ears while he set the Rillmen in marching formation, and weighed in his heart as their column trudged North. Beneath the distant croaking of the frogs and buzz of evening insects, through the grey and gloomy days that he was loath to count, the harper scarcely left his thoughts.

Robert had found Pate wandering the ramparts of the Twins, his voice listing mournfully into the wind.

“What ho, singer?” He’d asked, the evening mist spraying his face. “Spare a happy song?”

“Hello, good ser,” the singer had said. “I’m afraid all my songs are sad tonight. There’s been a bird from the capital, from my lord. He’s like to die there, he says, and I’m not like to see him again. When I return to Rosby village, I’m to bring his heir into his own.” The singer had scanned the walls, then, the Frey men ready at their posts. “Lord Gyles is a kind sort. He lacks strength of body but boasts an open heart. A wealthy man, always generous to those in his employ.” The singer hoisted up the hem of his cloak with a flourish to reveal flashy red boots of fine red leather. “I will be sad to see him go. He heard me singing in the stables when I was just a lad. That was to be my fate. A stable boy. But he knows talent, and he raised me up. I’ll miss him, old Lord Gyles.”

Soon Robert came to know that Lord Gyles’ heir was none other than His Grace’s former squire. _Fat chance he’ll be off to Rosby any time soon with how they’ve locked this place down. _Perhaps after the old stoat died poor Olyvar would be let out of his cell. Winterfell, Riverrun, Darry, the Dreadfort, now Rosby too. _Soon a Frey arse will warm every seat in these Seven Kingdoms. _

After that chance meeting, Robert had begun inviting Pate to sing at the suppers hosted by Lord Bolton. _When he plays it almost sounds like Dom. _He missed his cousin sore. It seemed that he was the only one who held out hope for Dom’s return. As the weeks passed Roose’s sour demeanor faded, but he never returned to his normal self. “Face it, Robbie, he’s dead. I told you. One knight in the Riverlands doesn’t stand a chance. It was a long shot that he’d turn up in Gulltown, and Redfort always tells the truth. If he’s not in the Vale he’s under the dirt.” Roose spoke with obvious strain and a hint of anger. “And _he_ doesn’t care. His own _father _doesn’t care.”

_He does care, he must_, Robert had thought, at the beginning. _He clenched his jaw and went for the wine, again and again and again. Just like Dom does. He wouldn’t stop talking. And his eyes were shiny. Those were tears. _He’d seen them, and he remembered, but soon the memory was all Robert had. The Lord of the Dreadfort went about his business as if nothing were amiss. Dom’s name he spoke not once after that night, not until the letters from Grandfather arrived. With fresh leech marks dotting his skin, Lord Bolton had called Roose and Robert to his solar and given them the news, but they’d already known. Lothar had seen to it.

“I trust your family will continue the investigation, and provide me with any news. My contribution to the bounty will increase, but alas… I have other pressing matters to attend to.” _That man is unfeeling, _Robert had thought, after Roose had slammed the door. _There was nothing on his face. No shock, no grief, no rage. Neither sorrow nor regret. _

Lord Tywin was dead, King Joffrey dead, and the new king just a boy. _The Crown was generous, but the Crown is broken._ With Ser Kevan and the Imp on the march, rule fell to the Fat Flower and the Queen. _And the Kingslayer._ Formidable though he was, the Young Wolf had proven that Jaime Lannister was no Tywin. _And the Faith of the Seven stands against them. _King’s Landing was overrun with holy men. Like Lord Bolton, the Iron Throne had _more pressing matters_ to attend to than the search for Domeric Bolton.

_Father doesn’t love me. It’s the skin off my toes if I ever cross him. He told me so. _That’s what Dom had confided in him, fear in his eyes, back when they’d been boys.

_Oh, my brother, how he has proved you right. _It was he’d never had a son, that Domeric Bolton had never lived, or had died long before he’d had the chance to make his mark on the world. _But he still carries on as Bethany Ryswell’s widower. _The Rillmen and barrowmen he held in chief esteem during war councils, giving them more say than the Freys. _Just enough respect to claim he never took us for granted. _

It was insulting. _Spare a thought for your son, my lord. Spare a word for our blood. Spare a force to look for him. Our family is paying dearly. _

But it seemed Lord Bolton had nothing to spare at all. He’d moved onto fucking a new son into his fat Frey wife with summary detachment. It was clear from the way his gaze would flick her way during suppers, how he’d leave the table promptly when she was finished.

No matter what she looked like, the callousness was cruel.

_Perhaps the harp would draw it out. Any acknowledgement at all._ That’s what Robert hoped when he brought Pate to dinner that first night. _That hope died, but another was born, and this one, more precious._

It was the trill he used during _When Willum’s Wife Was Wet. _Dom’s signature. He added it to every song that shared that air, to build up the suspense. Then there was the bridge between _Oh, Lay My Sweet Love Down in the Grass _and _My Lady Wife. _That was something he’d come up with for one of the White Harbor men, one who’d never come back. _Ser Jonnel. _

By the night before they were to leave, he had to know, and he took Pate aside, and then he learned. “His name was Ser Donner from Gulltown, and I met him at the Rosby inn. He tuned my harp for me and taught me the song I played for Lord Walder...”

_The Wolf in the Night. _The version from the wedding. “Dom _had_ to have written it,” he’d explained to Ronnel and Roose, when he had his case together. “He _has _to be alive.” The crackles of the cookfire barely covered his hurried whispers, and in the dirt with a twig he’d traced the coast of the Narrow Sea.

“The Kingsroad and the Rosby Road both lead up to the Trident from King’s Landing. Near the Kingsroad falls Sow’s Horn, then Harrenhal and the God’s Eye, then Lord Harroway’s Town. South to North. Then east again, that’s Saltpans, the Quiet Isle, then Maidenpool. South from Maidenpool leads the Rosby Road, and on the Rosby Road to the capital lies Duskendale – ”

Roose had broken into a wild peal of laughter, a string of barks, harsh and mocking like a masked weasel. Then he’d sneered. “Don’t do this. He’s dead. What are you, a playwright for a mummer’s show? This is nonsense, I tell you – ”

“Roose – ”

“_Nonsense_. Aye, go ahead. Raise your hope to the stars. Watch it fall with the rain. Dom’s _gone_, Robert. _Dead. _No amount of our house’s blood or treasure can bring him back.” From below the flames had cast Roose’s face in dancing light, and in his shadowed scowl Robert had seen all the comity they’d rebuilt die without farewell. “Dom’s dead.” Roose had risen and made for the tent, leaving Robert with Ronnel. _Ronnel will listen. He always listens._

But it was not so.

“Robert,” his uncle had said, sighing. “Can you hear yourself?” Robert could hardly believe it. “You know, lad, I was like this too, once. Spinning yarns when I had no business at the wheel. When Lord Stark told us Lord Willam died, I – I refused to believe it. He’ll come back, I told my lady. That’s his horse but there’s no bones, no body. He must come back. The last Lord Dustin. He couldn’t be gone. Willam was strong. Willam could fight. I thought he could do anything. Walk barefoot from all the way from Dorne behind a merchant’s caravan. Stow away on a cog and swim the Sunset sea when they turned off at Lannisport. A boy’s fancies, those were. Borne of guilt. I didn’t go. I couldn’t. He was dead. What right had I to doubt Lord Stark’s words? The Lord of Winterfell, and me a squire from Goldgrass. Aye, Robert. Why would Redfort lie? Lord Bolton’s cousin, he is. On good terms with Lord Rodrik.”

Ronnel had picked up another twig and traced roads in the dirt. “Say Domeric shows up with the girl in the Vale. Soon after, it happens. Ser Edmure’s wedding. What does Redfort do? Better for him if Domeric comes into the North. Better for his sons, of which he has too many. I tell you, Robert, a high lord like that – he’d have had them both returned. Marry them to each other, like Lord Bolton would have. See peace before Winter falls.”

Robert could scarce believe his ears.

“Dom – Redfort would have helped him. Whatever he wanted. And – I know – he wouldn’t have stood by it. Dom. What happened at the wedding. He would have backed her claim. The girl crowned at Runestone. It’s her.”

“And if it is? To crown her was an act of war. Against Bolton, Dustin, Ryswell. Us. Why would he do that? His own blood. That one is no kinslayer.” Ronnel had shaken his head. “You know what he spoke of. He wanted to bend the knee. Go home, make peace before winter. End the war. He didn’t believe in His Grace’s cause. The Northern kingdom. And a ruling Queen? Would he have stood for that? Of course not.” In Ronnel’s face Robert had found no indulgence.

“Sansa Stark marches against us. It matters not if it’s her for true or the High Septon’s bastard pretender. If she had Domeric… a fine hostage he would make. She could take the North with the stroke of a pen if she had him.”

“I know it was him – ”

“You know a singer trilled the harp. Anyone can do that, Robert.” The growing dark had brought the cold, and the cold had leached away the fog. Around them masked weasels laughed, the harsh sounds cutting through the clear air. “Robert. It’s been too long. I’m of a mind with Roose here. Young Domeric is gone. Come on, lad, you’ve a whole life ahead. Once the squids are gone, gods willing, we’ll drive out Stannis and you’ll settle down. Have a future. Lady Sara’s waiting for you, aye? Put a few babes in her belly and let them bring you joy. Come on, now. Set your sights on the prize before your feet.” 

For the rest of the march Robert had not once raised the matter again. Not even to Lord Bolton. _He won’t care, but Grandfather and Aunt Barbrey will._

***

This far North the rain abated, but the air remained humid, chilly, insalubrious. Robert ignored the snorting of the horses, the men’s half-hearted cheers, the squelch of boot on mud. Moat Cailin’s three ruined towers jutted out from the horizon, black blights on a sick white sky.

A rider had come racing down the causeway, the flayed man banner hailing victory over the Ironborn and the broken siege. Tomorrow night they’d sleep easy. _A stone roof over our heads, and thick walls to stop the mudmen’s darts. _With security and ease Lord Bolton’s host had marched south and North and south again when the Young Wolf’s war was raging hot, but now the Robb Stark was dead, and the Neck was Reed land, and the Reeds were Stark men through and through.

The light had died earlier each day, and when it did, thick night fog bubbled forth from the spongy ground, as if the Neck itself had breathed it out from its fetid bowels. Beyond the camps a man could hardly see past his own outstretched hand, and the air muffled every rustling leaf, every snapping twig, every belching blot of mire. Tense, rushed and tired, every noise could have hailed an ambush, and they all had grown weary of wariness, of long watches in the night with a tripled guard all in full plate. On their Northward march they looked not for a fight, but waited.

But now they’d leave the Neck behind and bed down behind strong walls. Gods willing Robert would never set foot south of Moat Cailin again, unless he’d arrived by sea. Soon he’d step sure on hard Northern soil and breathe clean Northern air. He’d look Father in the eye as they clasped hands, kiss Mother and his sisters on the cheek, wed Sara and get a child on her within the year.

And there would be no more masked weasels. Unlike other weasels, they were stout of body, with potbellies like a too-well-fed dog. Their coats were a drab grey, but their tails sported black and white rings; their pelts were prized in Northern fashion. Filthy creatures, they were, with clawed black hands that could grasp and clutch as well as any man and scratch as deep as any beast. Devious, intelligent, with invasive, pointed snouts, their sinister eyes were ringed with masks of black fur that gave their name, and their stares flashed in the night. One bite was enough to drive a man mad, fevered, raving, foaming at the mouth, dead in a matter of days.

How Robert hated them. In the dark, they laughed like demons, their short shrieks sounding from the trees. _Don’t call them that_, Branna had told him once. _ They belong to the old gods of the forest. You like to laugh, Robbie. Mayhaps you’ll wake with a ring tail when next you die._

If of the gods they were, then the gods were laughing, as Roose had laughed at him. _But Grandfather will not laugh at me. Grandfather will listen. _And he’d see Grandfather tomorrow night.

The pale sun dawned late and lit the green world for just a few short hours, but it was time enough for the head of their column to reach the one-grand fortress. The Rillmen and barrowknights rode in the van with the Dreadfort men and the Freys, the squeaky progress of Lord Bolton and Lady Walda’s wheelhouse far too slow for Robert’s liking, but at last Steelshanks Walton called the halt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw Roose’s lip curl, his nostrils flare, and behind him a man cursed.

“Fuck me,” the voice came, nasal and pinched. “What is _that_?”

Choking back bile, Robert covered his mouth with his right hand and with his left stopped his horse from retreating, soothing the beast as much he could. An ill wind had blown out of the North, setting the banners overhead to flutter like bats’ wings: the black and gold and bronze and red of Aunt Barbrey’s and Father’s on the Children’s Tower, and on the Gatehouse Tower Bolton pink and red.

“Flayed men,” deadpanned another rider.

_Indeed. _Robert had never before missed the taste of ash, the smoky scent of lands on fire, and he’d never thought he would, but they seemed sweet perfumes when held against the foul odors wafting down the breeze: rotting flesh and putrid bile and shit-filled bowls left out to fester.

And skins.

_Grey and brown, not pink and red. _It had been days. They weren’t fresh.

In life these had been Ironmen, hard and fearsome reavers. Now they were hardly scarecrows.

Three score of them at least, there must have been, the skins above, the bodies below. Nailed spread-eagle to hastily-made wooden flaying crosses, they lined the causeway in pairs like silent sentinels. From empty sockets their stares seemed to follow, as if their ghosts could watch from their hollow skulls even as the eyes themselves steered above in crows’ bellies. The van advanced to join the camp, breathing from the mouth to a man.

Five moons he’d spent beneath Moat Cailin’s storied eaves, training in the yard and practicing the tilts, the Bolton banner flying, and the Stark. Now, the direwolf was gone, and though the scene before his eyes was scarcely different, his heart could scarcely recognize the place. Before, the crumbling blocks of black basalt and the climbing green moss bore the dignity of ages past, the grace of heroes and kings glimmering through time, as Dom might have put it. It was summer then, and the sun still shone, but now all glimmering was gone. Now winter crept near, and the black stones and the green moss and the grey mist and the foul stenches came together in a swirling mire of death and ruin, decay and despair, a monument to the sickly bog it oversaw.

In the courtyard Robert fell in line beside Roose and Ronnel, the Rillmen and barrowmen arrayed beside them and behind. Out of the camps several figures emerged, and in the distance they seemed as red centaurs. Father and Uncle Rick and his Stout cousin Harwin he recognized at once, by their colors before their faces. They too fell in line across the yard: courtesy demanded the greetings only begin when Lord Bolton and his lady emerged. Nonetheless Robert saw the twitch of Uncle Rick’s smirk, the flash in Father’s eye, the breeze in Harwin’s hair, almost like a nod. _Grandfather, where is Grandfather? _

Out came another rider on a Ryswell red, but everything about the man was all wrong. Grandfather’s hair had long since gone white; he wore it in a ponytail tied back with a leather thong. This man’s dark hair hung limply about his face, and even a yard’s length away Robert knew it shone not with healthy luster but with stinky grease. Over his noble skull Grandfather’s face was weathered and gaunt, the nostrils in his straight nose always flaring above the hard line of his mouth. Everything about this man’s face was wide: his smirking lips, almost exaggeratedly so; his face, as a dinner plate; his nose, like a fat bulb of garlic. His cheeks bulged out with the sort of pudge that was endearing on a boy but slovenly on a man grown, and the pink blotches on his skin betrayed a poor diet and poorer breeding. He looked as much like Grandfather as a giant pig did a horse, down to the colors on his cloak: pink and red, not bronze and black. And his eyes were all Bolton cold.

_That’s Dom’s brother. That’s Ramsay Snow. _

Robert hated him on sight, and as his blood heated, he had to remind himself that today, the Bastard was no foe. _He tried to kill Dom. _By the smirk on the Bastard’s face it was clear that he could not be more pleased at Dom’s apparent demise. It was all Robert could do to keep his sword hand firm on the pommel of his saddle and away from the hilt of his sword. To cool himself he inhaled deeply, but instead of calm he breathed in the foul stench of days-old flayed men.

_The Bastard did that._ Dom would have never. Roose had come to the same conclusion, and Robert heard his disgusted scoff. 

Behind the Bastard a Dreadfort retainer followed, a stooped old man all clad in black. _Even his men shy away from him. _Other men might have flinched back from the pink and red, but the Bolton men respected Dom, or liked him, even. It was clear as day. His cold lord’s face might have sent a chill running down their spines, but more often than not they were as like to find him stopping by their cookfire with his harp in his hand and a soft smile on his face. 

The Freys filed into the courtyard. Elmar dismounted from his rounsey and went to stand beside his brother Ser Aenys and Ser Hosteen while he awaited his wife. The poor boy was southron to the core, seeming to wilt with each step they took further North. It hadn’t taken Robert long on the march to realize that the young Lord of Winterfell was all alone. _His mother was a Farring, and the Farrings are far away. _None of his full-blooded siblings had followed him up the Kingsroad. _I can shield him no longer. _The invitations to supper would soon stop; Lord Bolton had taken the young lord and lady as his wards.

Robert looked on Elmar’s shivering form with pity. _Better if he came west with us_. _The Dreadfort will kill him._

Soon enough Lord Bolton’s wheelhouse reached its place of prominence in the yard, and the footman leapt to open the door. Lord Bolton stepped out with more haste than was his wont, pulling the heavily-bundled Walda by the hand, bouncing as she went. As soon as she planted her dainty boots square on solid ground, she leaned her weight against the door while the footman rushed to lock it from without. Only then did she come forward to her husband’s side.

The wheelhouse rocked once, twice, first this side, then that, before a dull thump sounded forth, followed by muted bangs of fists on wood, and muffled shouts in the high notes of a young voice. _The girl, _Robert realized. _Arya Stark._

“The Warden of the North and the Lady of the Dreadfort,” announced Steelshanks Walton. “On your knees!”

All obeyed, and the Bastard was bid rise first.

“My son,” said Lord Bolton.

“Father,” said the Bastard. _Even his voice is ugly. _The pair exchanged words, and Lord Bolton introduced his wife, and the Bastard knelt again to kiss her chubby hand. The mutual distaste between stepmother and stepson obvious by the Lady Walda’s cringe, by the Bastard’s discourteous sneer.

“My goodbrothers,” Lord Bolton greeted Father and Uncle Rick, and both drew to their feet. “Where is Lord Rodrik?”

“Barrowton.” It was Father who spoke. “He left this place once we heard from Torrhen’s Square.” Robert’s heart sank. Father’s ear would do him no good, and neither would Uncle Rick’s. _They’re not like to hear me out if even Ronnel wouldn’t._ It was Grandfather who he had to speak with. _A week more, then_. More waiting wouldn’t kill him. “Ben Ashwood. Hornwood’s man. Is he with you? Lady Berena would speak with him. If we could send him on ahead – ”

“Three days behind the van,” Lord Bolton cut in. “The Hornwood men were all afoot. The Karstarks and the Cerwyns too.” If that answer displeased Father more than Lord Bolton’s mere presence did, there was no sign of it.

“As you say.” Father smiled and opened his mouth to speak again, but a sharp _rap_ forced him to pause. “The girl. She is there?”

“She is,” said Lord Bolton, his lip curling. A vein twitched in his forehead. “Roger. I would – ”

_Rap rap rap _went the door of the wheelhouse, and with a creak and a crash the door flew open. The rumpled grey blur that was Arya Stark leapt into the yard and spun wildly around before Steelshanks Walton grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. She scowled and began to bark like a dog.

“You _said_ I could come out. Once we reached Moat Cailin. We’re _here. _You _lied _to me. You _said _I could ride a _horse _– ”

“Lady Arya. It is not fitting that a lady of your station behave in such a manner. Indeed, I did say you could come out. I did say you could ride a horse. I am a man of my word.” Lord Bolton’s smile was as true as snow was warm. “I merely required a moment to make the appropriate arrangements.” Lord Bolton bared his teeth and placed a hand on his hip, just a hair’s width away from the hilt of his flaying knife. Just as quickly he raised it in a wave of introduction.

“Ramsay. Roger. Rickard. These are my wards. Arya of House Stark, the Lady of Winterfell, and her husband, Elmar of House Frey. Her Lord Protector.” As they nodded in acknowledgement, Uncle Rick and the Bastard could hardly conceal their contempt for poor Elmar, but Father’s face did not change. “Lady Arya. Elmar. I present to you Ramsay Snow, my natural son, and Roger and Rickard of House Ryswell. My goodbrothers.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lords.” Elmar did not stutter, and Robert felt a flash of pride. Sullen Lady Arya only tipped her chin.

Lord Bolton’s gaze flicked back to the wheelhouse. “And where...”

“My lord, I swear, I didn’t help her, I _swear…_” Voice trembling and eyes downcast, Lady Jeyne emerged. There was no Dreadfort man to meet her, so Father helped her down. “I sat behind… I told her not to do it, my lord, I begged her _– ”_

No words were needed to silence the likes of Jeyne Poole, so Lord Bolton turned his attention back to the Stark girl. “Roger. As I was saying. I promised Lady Arya she could ride her own horse to Barrowton once we reached Moat Cailin. Pardon me for my presumption, but I had hoped you could spare a red.” He paused. “And your ten fastest men.”

Father’s brow twitched the slightest amount. “Of course.”

“Father, I would go,” Robert volunteered. _I would speak to Grandfather and Aunt Barbrey alone. _But that was not the only reason. He’d stay far away from the Bastard, avoid a scandal, and see Branna and Grandfather Harwood all the sooner. And Mother and Beth and Sara might already be there too.

It took Father a moment to think. “No,” he said. “We have much catching up to do, my son.” Then Father’s gaze drifted to Robert’s right. “The one to escort Lady Stark to Barrowton will be Roose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't quite finish chapter 45 but I'm almost there. By tomorrow or Saturday for sure. Then on to chapter 46 and beyond! I'm confident in saying that the two-week update cycle is back on track. Having the outline really helps, I'm so glad I did it. 
> 
> Chapter 45 is another new POV. Does anyone want to guess who it is?
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story, I really appreciate it.


	45. Lancel I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancel Lannister arrives at Castle Darry to marry Amerei Frey and prepare for the battle against the Vale rebels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for an unpleasant, unconsummated wedding night at the end of the chapter where Lancel thinks about someone who hurt him.

“There it is, cousin,” Tyrion said. “Your new home.” Castle Darry was smaller than the Red Keep and nowhere near as opulent. Narrow, short, plain, _drab – _those were the words that came to mind when Lancel beheld those grey stones, the humble plowman flying in modest black and brown. Lancel could hear the condescension in Tyrion’s voice, the jape tinged with pity. Once he might have felt the same way – that even the littlest lion of Lannister stood high above such lowly folk, though noble they might call themselves. Even now his eyes could not deny it: his new seat was not half as grand as the ancient ringfort that crowned Casterly Rock.

“My new home,” Lancel repeated, if only to himself.

Father did not think so. Father did not like it. He’d even gone so far as to protest to Uncle Tywin when the decision had been made.

“A _whore_,” he’d said with rancor. “He’d marry you to a _whore_. A _slattern _too loose even for the Street of Silk! I’ve heard enough from Genna and her boys. This girl, do you know what her own _family_ says about her? Why, even Old Lord Crakehall’s daughters weren’t half as bad. My boy… forgive me. Forgive your Uncle Tywin. In this – I thought he would grant me this. I have never once asked anything of him. I told him – she has a younger sister. Marissa is her name. A girl of five-and-ten. More like to be a maiden. But you know what he said to me? ‘More like to be a maiden, but utterly worthless.’ She’s behind _both_ the whore _and_ the line of Bolton in the order of succession, if we forget Lady Darry’s boy.” Father had clasped his arm then. “He said he would _reward_ you,” Father had said. “Lancel. I am so sorry. I failed you. You do not _deserve_ this.”

But Tywin Lannister’s word was Tywin Lannister’s rule, and Tywin Lannsiter’s rule was Kevan Lannister’s way, even after Tywin Lannister was dead.

_Father, don’t you see? You have no need for such indignance. Do not stand up for me. What does it matter if my bride is soiled? My soul is dirty too. Best leave the spotless maiden for Martyn when he weds._

Gatehouse Ami, Darry, all of it - it was better than he deserved. Every white tuft of hair that fell away from his head, each stab of pain that burst forth from his not-quite healed wound, the shivers up his spine in the deepening cold – the sum total of his sufferings could not begin to make amends for what he’d done.

_Clang _echoed the bells in the castle, hailing the top of the hour. Lancel bowed his head and prayed.

_I confess, O One, O Seven, that I have greatly sinned…_

He’d given the king the tampered wine that left him drunk before the boar. _Disloyal cur. Deceiver. Accessory to Murder. Collaborator, conspirator, liar by omission. _He’d fucked the Queen before she’d been made a widow, and had not stopped when she had. _Traitor. Fornicator. Slave to lust’s base urges. _He’d watched and done nothing as grown men had stripped a defenseless lady and beat her bloody. _Oathbreaker. Craven. Scum of the earth. Unfit to be an anointed knight._

In his pride he’d justified his deeds, denied his own transgressions. King Robert struck his wife and ignored his children, and tormented his squires for sport. _For Cersei and Myrcella. For Tommen and Joffrey. For Tyrek and for me. _It would be better when he was gone. Uncle Tywin would rule the realm again, and the Seven Kingdoms would prosper. Cersei loved him, and he loved her. He could not but obey. _She is my Queen as Joffrey is my King. _

How wrong he’d been about everything.

_I have let darkness into my heart, I have blinded my own eyes. I am as one dead who walks. _Sin dulled the intellect and impaired the rational function of the human soul. _It was mine own fault that I was stupid._

It was his own fault, but the Mother had taken pity on him, opened his eyes and given him another chance. That night his life changed forever, as he struggled from the battle through Maegor’s Holdfast’s winding halls, her song cut above the screams and the crashes and the wildfire’s roar: _Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…_

And saved him she had. The Seven lived in all their children, and that day the Mother wore the guise of a young girl, with clear blue eyes free of any guile, and hair as red the womb. The Mother showed her face in Sansa Stark.

_I said the words that stoked Joffrey’s rage._ _I watched you bleed and tremble. I was your enemy. You should have let me die. _

He’d coughed up blood when he’d heard she’d jumped and lit all the votive candles beneath the Mother’s altar when they told him she’d escaped. _Sansa Stark, I pray they never find you. _The Mother saved her too, and it gave him cause for hope.

Her incomprehensible kindness after the cruelty she’d endured was a knot he could not untie, a question he could not answer. “Some mysteries only the gods can solve,” Septon Ollidor had said. “Are you ready to make your confession, my son? Septa Gildyanne is just without.”

He hadn’t been ready. _I must discover all my sins. Nothing must go forgotten._ But his delay was only another folly, for after the riot, Septon Ollidor had died, and Septa Gildyanne too, and Cersei had shuttered the royal sept and banished all the godsworn from the Red Keep. Cersei had banished all who would challenge her from the Red Keep. Father, Tyrion, Garlan Tyrell.

“The Hand of the King,” she’d purred from atop the Iron Throne, poor tired Tommen on her lap. “The Warden of the West. And the new Lord of Darry. I bid you all fight in His Grace’s name and put down the Vale’s rebellion.”

What a fool he’d been to think she’d ever loved him. _She struck me when I bled, and when I woke she was nowhere to be found. _She hadn’t visited him once in his convalescence, for she had only time for Tommen, and _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime. _All the rumors about her had been true. _That woman, she only wants her own brother._ Even short a hand Jaime was more a man than Lancel would ever be. _Who could want a yellow cat when the golden lion has returned? _He’d only ever been Jaime’s replacement, a means to an end. _And that was all I ever aimed for._

Blind and addled, he’d wandered far afield, but the gods had cleared his sight and called him to their path. _They made me Lancel Lannister. They know me, they love me, they call me to serve. _In the heavens outside time, out of the stuff of flesh and souls, the Smith had fashioned _him_, Lancel, unique, unrepeatable, irreplaceable. The Mother and the Father charged Dorna Swyft and Kevan Lannister to raise him up in the Seven’s Light, and the Crone never stopped searching for him when he’d been lost. The Stranger had denied his pleas for death, the Warrior returned his strength, and now the Maiden bid him atone and live as one clean.

“I repent,” he’d told his cousin. Jaime, at least, had come to see him. _I cannot chase you anymore. _There were no septas but he had to confess. “Do you know what I did?”

A shadow had passed over Jaime’s face when he was done, and his cousin had left without speaking. Lancel had not expected to see him darken his chamber door again that night. Hooded in brown and not his usual Kingsguard whites, Jaime carried a bundle, long, wrapped in dull roughspun. By its shape it was clear what lay within.

“A sword,” Lancel had said.

“Two,” Jaime had said. The twin blades were made of the same Valyrian steel, rippled with black and red, with twin lion-head hilts of ruby-studded Lannister gold. “Father had these made for Joffrey, and for me. But Father is gone, and neither Joff nor I can use them.” Jaime had paused. “I swore a vow to Lady Catelyn. To bring her daughters back. I fear I cannot keep it, for I am _required _here.” Jaime spat the word out like a piece of fouled meat. The shadow had returned, his eyes narrowing. Jaime muttered something inaudible before continuing. “These were Eddard Stark’s blades. They belong to Eddard Stark’s daughter.”

“It is only a rumor.” _A rumor and a hope. A sign._

“But you know her face. You can prove the rumors true or false.” Jaime had held out his arms and bid Lancel draw. He’d been surprised when the muscles in his arm did not quiver and give. One glance and he’d been convinced the weight of so much glory would be too much for him. But he’d only picked up one.

“What are they called now?”

“Joff never got the chance to name his. And you know how I hate naming things. The honor is yours.”

It had come to him in an instant. “Mother’s Mercy,” he said. “Father’s Justice.” Sansa Stark was a pious girl. She would not object.

Jaime gave him a fake smile, white and shiny. “Go, Lancel, and tell no one. I hope you do what I cannot.”

“Lancel?” A note of concern tinted Father’s voice. “Son, are you all right? Do you need to rest a moment?”

“No, Father. There is no need. All is well. I was praying.”

Father ordered Lester to see to the construction of the camp while the knights and the lords who held command processed inside.

“Tyrion,” Father said. “Mine eyes are old, and I fear they are failing. I do not wish to trust them. Tell me, what banners do you see flying there?”

“Tommen’s standard. The Darry plowman. The twin towers of Frey. The brindled boar of Crakehall. Ah, and Clegane.”

“And that is all?”

Lancel could hear Father’s apprehension, Tyrion’s smirk. “For the moment. I trust that Banefort and Prester and Brax will be up there soon enough.”

When they reached the courtyard, a lone woman cloaked in brown stood there to greet them, hands folded, tapping her foot.

“I am Mariya Darry,” she said, with enough courtesy to excuse her brusque expression. “Lord Tyrion. Ser Kevan. Ser Lancel. Your arrival has been much anticipated.” She rushed to greet Ser Lyle Crakehall, Ser Forley Prester, and Ser Flement Brax before turning abruptly towards the keep. “Pardon my haste, my lords, sers,” she said. “If you would follow me to the solar. Ser Clegane returned from the fords this morning. He would have words with you before the wedding.”

Lady Mariya took long, purposeful strides, leaving little time for Lancel to acclimate himself to the lay of the castle. Just a few short weeks ago he might have been struggling for breath at their brisk pace, but now he’d gained enough strength that it only left him with a twinging stitch in his side. It was Tyrion who requested that they slow down, and Lancel was glad for the relief.

They reached a plain oak door whose wrought iron handle had begun its life connected to a plow. Lady Mariya opened it without knocking, announced their presence, and strode away.

The shouting began when Ser Lyle barreled into the solar to greet his kinsmen, interrupting whatever discussion had been underway. With one Clegane and so many of Crakehall stock stuffed into the room, even at two stone thinner than he’d once been, Lancel fought for space. Even Tyrion needed to. The cramped quarters raised the many competing booming voices even louder, and the tiny space grew hotter with each passing moment, each increasing level of sound. Lancel knew his voice was powerless to get any word in. He observed Clegane clutch his skull and scowl, one of his infamous headaches coming on, and tapped Father on the arm. Father caught Ser Lyle’s attention, for only Strongboar could put an end to such cacophony.

_“QUIET!” _Ser Lyle roared, and the conversation died. Clegane nodded, took a deep breath, and clenched his fist. But it was Danwell Frey who spoke first.

“My lords, sers, it is good that you are here. A hundred men my brother Raymund lost this morning. Twelve thousand Valemen sit encamped at the base of the High Road already. I know your men had wanted rest, but we should march at _dawn – ”_

“Tarly is not here,” Father countered. “That has always been the plan. Link up with Tarly and seal them in the Vale. Let the clansmen kill them off and the mountains starve them out.” By the map of the Trident spread flat on the table the situation was clear. Five hundred Freys to defend Darry, and five hundred to hold the southern bank. Five hundred more to hold the northern bank and secure the Ruby Ford, while Clegane’s two thousand-odd men harried the Valemen’s outriders in small and swift detachments to the foothills. A Frey had brought out a bright yellow lions’ head blocks to represent the Lannister ten thousand and placed them behind Darry in a line.

At the base of the mountains blocks in many colors lay heaped together. _Waynwood, Hunter, Sunderland, Lynderly, Melcolm. _To the east, by the sea, lay Maidenpool, and there, the Tarly huntsman and the leaping Mooton salmon, forty-five hundred strong.

Clegane slammed his fist on the table and the Trident shook as if rocked by an earthquake. “We _cannot_ wait any longer,” he fumed. “Their camp grows by the day. We have the numbers now. We _must _attack – ”

“With Tarly our advantage will be greater. I had a bird from him not a fortnight past - ”

_“Then why isn’t Tarly here?” _Father took a deep breath in, his brow furrowing. Only Uncle Tywin could truly tame the Mountain. “Any more wasted time and they’ll break through. I say we _march _\- ”

“Ser Gregor, you speak out of turn. I hold the command. I say my host will wait. We will remain here when you ride for the fords on the morrow.” Father stood and scanned the room and placed a hand on Lancel’s shoulder. “Come, all of you. We have a wedding to attend.”

A Darry man in humble browns came to escort them to the guest chambers. _Father’s chambers_, Lancel knew. But for his cloth-of-gold doublet slashed with sumptuous reds – _too fine for me –_ his own things had been taken to the lord’s quarters, but he’d bed down in the bridal suite.

He donned his clothes and was almost pleased when the fabric failed to swallow him. Loose, yes, but not morbidly so. The Mother had been kind. In the Myrish glass he smoothed out the wrinkles and studied his reflection. Hair like brittle straw and eyes green like wilted leaves. A mouth long past the age of smiling. _I look as old as Father does._

Father was soon dressed too, a heavy velvet cloak draped over his arm. “Let me help you. Here.” The weight settled evenly on Lancel’s shoulders, and he tensed his back till it was straight. _A groom’s cloak. A yoke and a burden. _Another suffering to bear with patience.

“Thank you.” Between Father’s fingers the golden lion’s head clasped shut, held together by a singular long tooth. Its ruby eye was rounded, smooth, drinking in the light where a cut gem would have glinted. It was just as well. Flashing eyes were proud.

“I wrapped your mother in this cloak,” Father said. “I wish that she were here.” Lancel nodded. “Martyn and Janei too.” Willem’s name went unspoken.

“Yes.” Lancel nodded again, but now he swallowed pain. He hadn’t seen any of them since he’d left the Rock a page. _I cried out for Mother as I bled, but it was good she did not come. _He wouldn’t have deserved it. Through the years in the Red Keep he’d sent fewer letters than she was due, and likewise with the twins and Janei. _And then it was too late._ He closed his eyes and the gods sent him their faces and a worthy share of hurt. _Another suffering to bear with patience._

“I was wed at the Rock,” continued Father. “You should have been wed at the Rock.” Father moved to straighten the cloak around Lancel’s shoulders. “I wed for love,” Father said, and his voice was sad. “I had hoped that you might too. Tell me, Lancel, have you ever loved a girl?”

Lancel opened his mouth but made no noise, and then he bit his tongue. _Cersei, I loved Cersei. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A woman wed and not a girl. Gods forgive me for what I’ve done._ “Yes, Father. But it does not matter now. It is ended now. I will do my duty.” He met Father’s eyes and wondered. _Father, do you know? _Maester Frenken had given him milk of the poppy, and he’d spoken in his sleep. _Did I call for her? Did I say her name? _He’d dreamed of her more than once. A mouth of kisses, a mouth of cruelty, and hands that soothed as well as struck. At her breast he suckled not milk but poison, and the fire in her touch was green.

Of all those to attend him in the sickroom, to sit at his bedside, Father’s visits had been the longest and most frequent. Father was there when he woke and there when he ate. If he’d made any mention of the Queen he’d loved, Father would have heard it, but he could not know. _It was easy to tell Jaime. So why do I stumble when I come to you?_

If anything, his answer – his silence and his words – only deepened Father’s sorrow. Then Lancel saw a flash of anger, and Father drew back, just a step. “It should not be this way. You should not be wedding _Gatehouse Ami. _A slattern and a _Frey. _You should not be _settling _for lordship over _Darry_. You do not _deserve – _”

“This is what I deserve, Father.” He kept his tone flat and even, his head held high, though all he felt was shame. Father shook his head and gripped him by the shoulders. “This is the fate the gods have chosen.”

“No,” he said. “No, Lancel. No, my son. You deserve so much _better. _So much _more_. A maiden bride of ancient stock. Lord Banefort’s daughter, or Lord Lefford’s. A Sarsfield or a Serrett. A girl who knew no man but you who came to love your talents and your faults.” There was an intensity in Father’s eyes that he could not bear, and at last he hung his head. “I hoped for so much _more _for you,” Father said. “Tywin always told himself that Jaime would cast aside the White. Blind, I say. He sold himself delusions. Jaime would never leave. But Tywin never wanted Tyrion.” Then there was a hand on Lancel’s chin, lifting his face, and another squeezing his shoulder tight. “Lancel. My son. You could have had the Rock.”

There was nothing he could say that Father would want to hear. _The Rock stands beyond my highest worth._ Eventually he found the words. “It was only a hope, Father. And now it is gone. It wouldn’t do to dwell.” He straightened his back and did his best to smile. “Come, Father. I must do my duty.”

The Darry sept was plain but clean, the crystals clear and sparkling like morning frost. All were silent as he approached his place before the Father’s altar, and as he proceeded deeper into the sept, the Light of the Seven shining forth from the gods’ eyes, the rainbows dancing overhead, he relaxed and let his lungs fill up with peace. To the Darry septon and septa he nodded as he folded hands and waited for his bride. Mayhaps he would be ready soon. Before they marched, for sure. He’d have to learn the septa’s name. _She’ll be here when I need her._

The assembled crowd must have stared at him, but Lancel ignored their gaze. He fixed his eyes on the Mother. Wilted wheat and dried corn lay spread around her feet, the final gift of autumn’s harvest. The Darrys of yore had carved her lovingly out of sturdy oak, and the Darrys of the present day had kept her varnished like new. With her round belly and bulging breasts, her form was far fuller than his own mother’s fragile frame, but in her gentle smile and open hands he could see Dorna Swyft. He kept still, as a bridegroom ought, and stayed his restless feet. All he wanted was to fall to his knees and fling his arms around her skirts. _O Mother, my Mother, you taught me how to pray. Bow your head when the bells do ring, seven times a day. I never used to listen but how I wish I did, for lo, my sins, they sting. _

The bride arrived and the ceremony began. _Blonde_, he noted. Any other color hair he would have preferred. They’d pulled up away from her face, and he hoped it was not curly. Her eyes were blue, and that, at least, was good. But his feelings didn’t matter. _This is my duty, _Lancel told himself. _She is my duty. _He looked beyond Gatehouse Ami’s shoulder at the Mother. _I never did enough for mine own mother, but I will do this for you. _The septon handed him a card for him to read aloud. When the readings began, he blocked out everything but Hugor’s words, but when it was time to sing and pray, he fumbled with his own. _These aren’t right. _He frowned at himself. _My mother taught me different. _

Then came the cloaks, the kiss, the vows. He fixed his eyes on the Mother the whole time, steeling himself for what was to come. _These words are chains, but I can bear them if you ask_. At the feast his new wife smiled at him and he did his best to smile in return. He’d failed already at conversation. She placed a hand too far up his thigh and he swallowed the revulsion. He knew he could do it, for on the march he’d woken up with his blankets plaster-hard near his groin. _As I have rights to her, she has rights to me. _He had to do his duty, but he did not have to eat. He pushed the roasted boar and potatoes around his plate before he finally gave up.

Father sat to his left and stopped his hand when he would have sent the food away with a serving man. “My son, you are no glutton,” he said. “Eat and restore your strength. A warrior is exempt from fasts. To clean your plate tonight would be no indulgence.” Lancel nodded his head and obeyed. The meat scratched along his tongue and sank down in his belly like stones.

There was no bedding and he was glad of it. Lady Amerei took his arm and pulled him through the winding halls to lead him to their bed, though by nature and by law he ought be leading her. As they processed Lancel regarded his wife, studying her face and what he could see of her form. _She is pretty,_ he thought, dull and dispassionate. Taller than Cersei, and bigger too, with broader shoulders, wider hips, a fuller chest and a rounder rump. Of Crakehall stock with a plain Frey face, Lady Amerei could never compete with the Light of the West. But soft brown freckles dusted her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, down her neck and all the way down to the tops of her bosom, and her mouth formed a playful smile that was as given to girlish giggles as easily as it was to aimless chatter. For that he was grateful. Aimlessness was better than overt, deliberate guile.

And her eyes were blue. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.

She barred the door behind them, stepped but a pace in front of him, jutted out her chest and clasped her hands together.

“My lord – ” she began, batting her eyelashes, “I have been wed – I am not a maiden…”

“I was told.”

She nodded, her smile failing, and her stance falling into a slouch. “I do not please you,” she said, pouting, stepping closer, just a hair’s breadth between them. “You have heard – about me – ”

“I have,” Lancel said, looking away. “It matters not to me. Your sins cannot be worse than mine.” He raised his head and found her brows knit together in confusion, her eyes widening.

“You do not care – ”

“No. Today we start our lives anew.” She made for his doublet but he stayed her grasping fingers. “Come, my lady wife. Let us pray for a fruitful union.”

They knelt together for a time and when they rose, the lady grabbed his hand. “Sit, my lord, there,” she said, helping him onto the bed. “I will please you. I know it.” She made quick work of his reds and golds and soon beheld him bare. “You look so very strong, my lord,” she said, tracing the contours of his muscles. _I look so very thin. _“You must be so very brave.” _I must be, _he thought, as she stroked his scars_. But I fail. Flattery again._

“Enough,” he said. He could take no more lies.

“All right,” she said. Her smile was more resolute than he was. With spins and twirls she disrobed for him, a show he could not savor. He’d been right about her form. _She looks nothing like Cersei. She’ll feel nothing like Cersei. _At her kiss the drum of his heart sped its pace, for she was all sweetness, no bite. She touched his chest and, in her wake, left warmth within, gooseprickles without. Then she palmed his balls and stroked his limp cock with practiced hands and a smile that was far too eager. _No, no, don't touch me, no... _He pulled back but she mistook the cue, and reached up to release her hair.

The dying hearth glowed orange. Down tumbled her wavy locks, golden in the fire, hiding her face. She pushed them aside, and in the warm light her eyes shone green.

Lancel’s blood ran cold. _Gods forgive me, I cannot do this. I have to lie._ Swallowing, he coughed to chase the hoarseness from his throat. “Pardon me, my lady,” he said. “The maester warned me this might happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many weddings have we seen in this story? We still have one more. I think we'll round out at seven, which is a fitting number.
> 
> Honestly I think that Cersei's treatment of Lancel ranks up there as among the worst things she did. I didn't pick up on just how awful Cersei's treatment of Lancel was when I first read the books, and I laughed at him too. How the show portrayed him after Season 2 just left a bad taste in my mouth, especially since they didn't show Lancel and Kevan's brief appearances in Sansa's POVs. Justice for Lancel ;_;
> 
> Kevan's relationship with Lancel was also really touching to me. It's clear he really cared about him... We see this in Cersei's AFFC chapters and it breaks my heart that they had a falling out as of Jaime's Darry chapter.
> 
> Where do you think Kevan learned how to dad? Tytos? Raising Dorna? Somewhere else?
> 
> I wanted to take a moment to ask if you all think this story is tagged/warned/categorized correctly. Am I over or undertagging? Is there something specific that isn't tagged that should be? Also, has this fic veered into F/M + Gen territory? There is a lot of content that is non-shipping which has come up and will come up.
> 
> I am also planning to rewrite Chapters 40-42 and 44 when I get to the end of the story. Structurally I think the story would improve if we jumped to the Twins after the letter from Septon Vortimer, so Robert VI at Moat Cailin can happen more at Moat Cailin instead of in a flashback. I admit to being stuck and spinning my wheels for a while trying to get out of the Vale (those chapters were written prior to the completion of the outline/hammering out of a lot of things, but after I deleted a plot element that wasn't working). I'm sorry that the pace of the story really slowed down after the Red Wedding. 
> 
> If you like those chapters as originally posted, do you think it would be better to put them in a separate story (an outtakes reel of sorts), at the end of this story, or intermingled with the revised chapters in this story?
> 
> If you'd rather not publicly comment on any of the above, I have an open chatbox/askbox at my tumblr, @ladyoflosgar.
> 
> The next two chapters are back with Domeric and will be going up on September 10-11 and September 24-25.
> 
> Thanks for everyone who's been supporting this story! See you all next time.


	46. Domeric XXIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Redfort's host takes Maidenpool and collects an important hostage. Lord Redfort gives Domeric an assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the 'sexism' tag.

From Runestone they’d sailed the Bay of Crabs and stormed Maidenpool by sea. Just one night they’d spent aboard the ships, merchant vessels all, not a single noble banner flying. By order of the High Septon one seventh of the yield of the commercial activity of the people of Gulltown, and so one seventh of each of the galleys and cogs in the Gulltown harbor not belonging to some foreign trader were enlisted to do the will of the gods’ own voice on earth.

If, when he had boarded, and stored Rhaegar safely below, Domeric had still been seething at joining Sansa’s cause to The Seven-Pointed Star, by the time their galley landed his growing hunger dwarfed such feelings. The sun emerged from the sea, only to sink beneath its mirror depths, and the gleaming stars wheeled across the sky, and after, Domeric was as another man. Brimming with confidence, roused and ready to a man, energy and conviction spread among the knights of the Vale like a plague in a crowded city. He could not help but fall sick too.

It did not hurt that the Redfort brothers had made it their goal to float his spirits on their voyage. He scarce spent a moment alone.

“Miss your lady, do you, Dom?” Jon had elbowed him in the ribs. “Put all that aside for now. Some delights can be had only in the company of men. Sweet womenfolk might sigh and sing, but they flinch from steel and death. To lance a foe’s belly with his blood on your face and his screams in your ear – such is the joy that awaits us.” _Randyll Tarly, that’s who awaits us. _They hadn’t met at Duskendale, but it mattered not to him. _Countless men were in that company Tarly buried on the beach. Ser Helman Tallhart and Robett Glover and perhaps Harry too. _His Northern queen would have southron blood.

When the whole ship rose at dawn to say the Warrior’s chaplet, he fixed his eyes on the shore and sent his prayers to the distant trees. Beyond the Bay of Crabs and up the Trident lay the Twins, where the gods had been offended. Where Ser Steffon and Ser Walton sought to transfigure the place in the Seven’s light, the heart tree demanded more. _I shall render up what is due to thee if you will make me strong. _

With the wind at their backs and the gods on their side, none could escape the thought that the gods were on their side. As they pelted towards the shore, Maidenpool in sight, Lord Horton clapped him on the shoulder.

“You. With me. That wall. Beyond the harbor and the docks. We’ll take it.” Lord Horton pointed, handing Domeric the captain’s Myrish lens. “I’ll jump first. You, after Jon.”

Domeric nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

By the time he sloshed onto the shore, salt water up to his knees, and ran his first Mooton man through, his blade shining red beneath Maidenpool’s pink walls, his blood was singing, and his muscles too. In the bracing autumn air and the chilly salt breeze he hardly broke a sweat. Not a score’s worth of salmon-clad defenders died before a trumpet sounded. A short, soft-looking knight in lordly velvets rode out to meet them on a tired warhorse, his banner bearer waving the white flag of surrender.

“I am William Mooton,” the knight said, his voice weak, his eyes shifty. “Lord of Maidenpool. I yield this town to the Faith of the Seven and open up my keep to its warriors.” Lord Mooton examined the knights on the beach. “You are Horton Redfort. Be welcome here, my lord. Your fleet will find safe harbor here, and your knights safe passage.”

It was disappointing. Domeric’s legs twitched as he brought his horse and things ashore, and his fingers tapped as he sat ahorse at Lord Horton’s side, carrying the proud Redfort colors as he had when he’d been a squire. Jon sat mounted next to him bearing the rainbow standard blazoned with Seven-Pointed Star. They watched the ships pull into the harbor in their motley array, no two the same, and none lost.

“How many men will these walls host tonight?” Lord Mooton asked Lord Horton.

“More than one thousand and less than ten.” Five thousand they had numbered.

“And who shall I dine in my hall?”

Lord Horton moved his jaw from side to side before answering. “Myself. Five of my knights, perhaps ten.” He waved at the docks and then shaded his eyes. “Waxley and his knights. Egen and Ruthermont. Moore and Wydman and theirs. I could not name all those they have.”

“I see.” Lord Mooton turned on his horse, and his jowls jiggled when his lip curled. “If you would not object, my lord, once your esteemed company disembarks, I would receive you in the castle.”

They processed uphill through the bustling town, and when they passed, the smallfolk stared. They eyed the Faith’s banner with wary curiosity, some waving, few smiling, but most who looked upon Lord Mooton scowled. To their left stood the great stone bathhouse built up around Jonquil’s pool. The mounted men behind him waved to hail the holy sisters standing watchful on its steps. One of Lord Horton’s more pious knights struck up the Maiden’s verse of the Song of the Seven, and at the tinkling laughter of the women and children lining the street the corner of Domeric’s mouth tugged upward. He’d have to tell Sansa that he’d seen this famous place.

_“The Maiden dances through the sky, she lives in every lover's sigh. Her smiles teach the birds to fly, and gives dreams to little children...”_

It was a far cry from what he’d heard when he’d marched south from Harrenhal. Tarly must have cleaned it all up. _The Glover men sacked this town and left it a stinking ruin. They boasted of fire and rape and profaning holy southron sites. _They’d broken into the bathhouse and deliberately set foot where no men go. To have broken bread with the men who’d laid waste to the pleasant port brought Domeric a moment’s shame, but he knew his present company would do no such thing. Lord Horton would not abide by it. Such conduct was beneath his standards.

Like the harbor walls beneath it, Mooton Castle reached up to the sky in great blocks of pink stone, and the red salmon on white snapped in the autumn wind. No sign of Tommen’s banner remained. As they passed through the gate and into the yard, on a tall structure that he recognized as Jonquil’s Tower hung colorful banners depicting the legendary lovers. Sansa would want to hear about this too. _Pink, it’s all pink. And the banners are red. _Before today, the loveliest castle Domeric had ever seen had been the Eyrie, mayhaps Ironoaks, though the Redfort had been his favorite. But Mooton Castle put them all to shame. With frosted-over ivy vines climbing high on the pale stones, and gilt square merlons boasting of the wealth of trade, through the cloudy puffs of his breath it all seemed something out of a dream. He took it in as long as he dared and set the thought aside. _We’ll tarry not here. A night, perhaps, no more._

Leaping salmon swam amidst ships and riverboats along the winding grain of Mooton’s grand wooden door. Ordering for bread and salt, Lord William filed them into the hall and took his similarly-carved seat. Domeric sneered behind his face. The sailors who’d taken them on had it on good authority that Lord Mooton had given Maidenpool over to Tarly’s justice as soon as the latter marched through the gate. Now, once again, he stuck his finger to the wind and turned. _Fickle as a weathervane. A fatter Walder Frey. _He was as much the coward in speech as he was in war, it seemed: the dumpy man opened his mouth, but as soon as Lord Horton made to speak, he closed it, and took a goblet of wine off a serving man.

“Tarly. He was here.”

From his jowls to his hands to the wine in his cup, everything about Mooton shook. “He went west, my lord. Upriver to Saltpans.”

“How many?”

“Five-and-forty hundred.”

“And how many were left behind?”

“None.”

The wine had granted Mooton some measure of boldness. “How many will _you _be leaving behind, my lord?”

“None.” Mooton nodded tightly.

“Maidenpool is a worthy port. All through this war my highest aim has been to keep the sea trade flowing. Surely, my lords, you understand – ” By Lord Horton’s unimpressed stare, Lord Waxley’s contemptuous smirk, and the haughty air that filled the room, it was clear the Vale lords understood. This man was no better than Baelish. His loyalty could be bought. “If – my lords – if I may – I have a daughter, my last remaining heir – _enticements_ could be made, surely… she was to wed the Tarly boy, but Lord Randyll took him away… Rest assured, my lords – a marriage – ”

“Who has a spare son for Lord William’s girl?”

“Eleanor, my lord – ”

“Who has a spare son for the Lady Eleanor?” The lords in the hall discussed it among themselves, and soon the agreement was made. Ser Terrance Waxley, a knight in their company, would wed Eleanor Mooton when the noon bells rang, and a hundred Wickenden men would stay behind. The rest of them would ride on.

“My lords, there is – ah, one more thing. Your road runs to the Wall, if the birds are true? You ride for the North.” Lord Horton only stared. There was no need to ask questions on matters of public knowledge. “I, ah – I have a _gift _for you. Tarly left him on my hands. A prisoner of the Iron Throne. He came along from Duskendale, but his custody does not, ah, _concern_ me anymore…”

Mooton had prepared for this point in the conversation, for at that moment the hall’s doors opened once again. Two Maidenpool guards flanked a tall, broad, bearded man in a tattered cloak, white on black and trimmed with seal fur. Moons of captivity might had left his hair with more than a touch of grey, and want of food had left his craggy features gaunt and thin, his leathers hanging off his frame. But he kept his head held high and his back spear-straight, and his stance proved him highborn, and a warrior. And those hard, ice-blue eyes were unmistakable…

***

“Har! That’s quite the tale you have to tell! I never took you for a madman, Ser Flayer. Always seemed the cooler sort.” They’d never bedded down at Maidenpool, never made camp, never spent the night in Mooton’s keep. Once all the men and horses had disembarked, Lord Horton had spurred them forth. With the wind in their faces and sweat in their mouths, the bubbling whisper of the Bay of Crabs grew into the Trident’s mighty roar, the biting scent of salt the acrid stench of flame. The day’s chase ended fruitless when the sun went down, but they made camp undaunted, eager for the morning hunt. 

Around their cookfire Harry scarfed down a second ration of salted meat, slopped down his broth, and attacked his bread and cheese.

“Harry, if I am mad, it is for love of my lady.” Domeric had long since finished eating and tweaked the pins on the small woodharp Creighton had given him, lazily plucking the first few notes to _Six Maids in a Pool _to test his tuning. His jovial tone turned serious. “I am glad you do not blame me. For what happened there at Duskendale. Thank you, my friend.” Harry’s words had salved the gnawing in his conscience that had started up again.

Harry chewed before nodding, and the cloud of his breath eased from his beard like mist from a bramble. “I’ve said my piece. The dead are with the gods. You say you tried to sway his mind, and you say you failed. Aye, I believe that. And you spoke to Glover and to Tallhart. Aye, I heard that too. For your silence then I cannot blame you. A man owes his father obedience, and loyalty to his kin. To betray him at that juncture would have been a mark against your name.”

“And now?”

“Aye, now.” That was the question. So much had come to pass in the months since last they parted, and much of the news caught Domeric unawares. _Ser Helman, dead for sure, and Robett Glover, alive, sailing North, somewhere. The Kingslayer, out at large, by Catelyn Tully’s hand. _“The Young Wolf killed my father. And yours killed the Young Wolf.” So many questions hung between them, and Domeric held his breath as he waited for Harry to speak. To look upon that icy stare, those battle-weathered hands was to regard the future of the whole North. _Winter comes, and war with it. _He could only hope that the present years of bloodshed would not blind them to the trials ahead.

Harry ripped at his meat and swallowed, licking his lips. He ate like a starving dog. “I am not my father. You are not yours. Mine was… Focused. Singleminded. One might say that what he lacked in sense he made up for in greed. His striving hindered his ambitions. And his love burned as hot as his temper. He was a loyal man. A passionate one. Now he’s dead, and I remain.” Domeric nodded. _Soon _he_ will be dead, and I will remain. _“I would not have made his choices. I would not have killed those boys. Rage, love, all rashness. That’s what it was. No thought in it at all. The same goes for what he planned for Alys.” Harry shook his head and scowled. “To give her hand to the first man to catch the Kingslayer. What _shit_ that was. A _carpenter_, a _foreigner_… Not my sister. My little sister. No. I loved him well enough but my father was a fool.” 

There was a bone in Harry’s hand and he snapped it, sucking the rusty marrow with a slurp. “But if I were the Young Wolf, I would not have taken off his head. The Wall, that’s where he belonged. The day Tarly spoke the words Robb Stark made an enemy of me. Kin, that’s first. Always kin before king.” Harry chucked the bone from his hand and it blackened with the twigs. “I asked Tarly to go. To ride North with him. To fight for Tommen and _earn_ my freedom. Recall my men and ready my keep before winter comes. Rid my lands of wildling scum. I may hate what Roose Bolton did but I hate starvation more.” As if for emphasis he finished the remainder of his bread.

“Tarly told me _no. _Thought I’d turn my cloak for the girl from the Vale. I argued. I thought she was a pretender. The new gods’ puppet to claim the North.” They smiled at each other. “I’m glad to hear that’s false. ‘Twas a bitter cup to swallow to kneel before a blasphemer. Aye, now I can ride home with my conscience clear.”

“Then you will pledge your fealty to my lady. To the Queen in the North.”

Harry laughed, and Domeric savored the harsh, familiar sound. If it had been good to see his friend again when Father had taken Harrenhal, it was downright miraculous now. He’d long since abandoned hope of Harry’s survival, and he’d never once hoped for _this_. The Lord of Karhold’s support would quell no little doubts of Sansa’s legitimacy. Harry was a powerful friend to have at her back. “The Wall will fall before the Northmen kneel for a Queen in the North, Bolton. Or should I say _your grace?”_

_No, no, no…_

Domeric’s surprise met Harry’s wolfish smirk. “It is Her Grace who is queen. Sansa is the last of the Starks.” He hid his scowl by drinking deep. “The Wall will fall before the Northmen kneel for a Bolton king.” He turned his waterskin in his hand. “Our firstborn son will take the name of Stark. By my lady’s right he will rule.”

Harry only shook his head. “The king is the man who passes the sentence. The king is the man who swings the sword. Tell me, Ser Flayer, can your lady lift a sword? Can she raise it high and charge into battle with brave and leal men behind her? Will you let her? For that’s what a king is. A leader of men. A killer of killers. He who deals death in the name of justice and the gods.” Domeric blinked and clenched his jaw. Just the thought of Sansa riding at the front roiled his gut and boiled his blood. _Not her, not there. _He felt her hands on his face, soft and small and smooth. Ladies’ hands, aye, that had never had a callous. Meant for soothing and for sewing, never stains of anything but sweet fruit juice and dye. _She’ll never, I’ll never. _He’d _sworn. No man will ever hurt you again. _The scars on her back were already too much.

“Aye, I see it on your face. You’re no fool to risk your wife like that. I know it. If your woman wields a blade it means you’ve failed. It means you’re dead. Your men are dead. Your seat is taken. Your sons are small, or dead as well. You left her without protection. _You failed.” _There was truth in Harry’s words, plain as day. Harry spoke not of knives for paring fruit or skinning fur, not of bows or traps for sport and game. Warrior women like Jonquil Darke and the Mormonts were something rare. Something unnatural. Novelties and freaks, like the Wildling shieldmaidens beyond the Wall. Their way was not the way of things for civilized folk. _He’s right. _Domeric couldn’t argue but he needed to save face.

“It is true that she will do no battle. That duty belongs to me. I am but her consort. Her Lord Protector. The crown is hers. I want it not. The _right _is hers, not mine. This cause – it’s _hers._ She is intelligent, _capable_, just like – ” _Just like her mother, _he was about to say. _Just like Lady Catelyn. _But he couldn’t say that to Harrion Karstark. “Like Lady Waynwood,” he said lamely. Anya Waynwood’s name meant nothing to Harry at all.

“Aye, it might be. But _you’ll_ deal the killing blow when she lays down the law. Or a headsman, when you ride off to war. The men – they’ll follow _you. _Not her. They’ll bleed with _you. _Not her. In the breach, in the mud, amidst fire and steel – that’s where loyalty is forged. They might stand behind a banner, but they look up and see a _man._” At this Harry beat his breast. “And when you come riding home, in victory or in defeat, that loyalty will pass, for a time, to her. But you’ll _want_ her, aye? A famous beauty, as you say? You’ll lay her down and love her and in a few turns of the moon, she’ll hide away, heavy with child, confined to the secret world of women. Would you have her climb the dais when she’s too big to walk? Would you have her deny petitioners when she suckles babies at her breast? With your children tugging at her skirts? I think not. To command and rule will fall to you again.”

_And again, and again. _That was what he wanted. To get a child on Sansa, one, or three, or eight. To watch her teats fill up with milk and sing to her warm and swelling belly beneath his palms. To hold her in his arms, kiss her every night, and watch the crinkles by her eyes grow deeper by the day. To lift his laughing daughters in the air, spinning them when they were yet too small to dance. To teach his sons to ride a horse and hunt a deer, to hold a sword and shoot a bow. All that he longed for, all that he saw, but when he stared into the dying fire and looked into his heart, nowhere could he find Sansa, hard-eyed and cold, condemning men off too their doom. Ladies did that, aye, he knew; he’d watched Aunt Barbrey sneer down at ne’er-do-wells, great and small, what must have been a thousand times. But lords were not meant to _see_ their wives that way. A lady sat the high seat when her lord was gone. Dead like Uncle Willam or far afield at war. To watch your wife mete out justice would smother love as much as to watch her birth would douse the flames of want.

_Sansa’s lips were meant for tender mercies, not harsh judgment._ She was his queen, but he did not have to _see it_ when she ruled.

Harry filled the silence, smiling his feral smile. “You’ll be the king in all but name. No matter if you want to be. No matter if you like it. She rules the North, but you rule _her_. It’s _you _who’ll lead her sons to know our ways. It’s _you_ who’ll keep the Seven from sweeping through our land, once Stannis is done with and our need for them is gone. That’s a cause I can fight for. What is it they say down south? One heart, one flesh, one soul. That’s what it is. I’ll bend the knee to Lady Stark. I’ll pledge my house and serve her name. But that means I’ll serve _you_. Domeric Bolton. Aye, I’m all right with that.” Now the cookfire was just an ember, and Domeric was cold. _I don’t want this. We are equals. _He held his face still and only watched as Harry slurped down the rest of his broth.

Harry belched and laughed again. “Now. What’s this you say about the leeching, eh, Flayer? Must I call you Ser Leech now, too?”

***

One hundred fifty miles lay between Maidenpool and Saltpans, and the Trident too. “We cross at the Quiet Isle,” Lord Horton said, pointing at the map. “We’ll build boats if the tide’s too high to take the Way of Faith. Or if the brothers do not welcome us.” Ere they’d left, there had been no word from the Elder Brother to Septon Vortimer as to where his sanctuary stood in the divide between Gulltown and the Sparrows.

Lord Waxley shook his head. “Best build the ferryboats either way. The Way of Faith is made of mud. The horses could not take it. I know these waters well.” Against his black surcoat, dark hair, and road-soiled silver plate his face looked very pale. “And we ought leave the brothers undisturbed.”

Lord Horton nodded. “A day or more we’ll waste then.” He turned to address Harry. “Lord Karstark. The Tarly host. You are sure they are on foot?”

“Aye. They had few horses at Duskendale, and Mooton had fewer to give them. Glover saw to that.”

“Then a day to waste we have.”

They’d made fast progress riding up the river. For the horses’ sake they had to rest a day, just a few short leagues from that famous winding path.

“You have more to give, my friend,” he’d whispered to Rhaegar when he rose that morning. “We could be across the water before the sun goes down.” His skin might have been chapped and his haunches might have ached, but the little pain meant naught to him. Tarly was close, within striking distance. He could feel it in his veins. He’d look up at the sky and watch the crows take flight in a scattering of wings. He’d spy bones on the ground, from mice and dogs and campers’ leavings, and _know. _The gods were telling him, and all their signs said victory was near. His very muscles twitched to leave. Another idle day displeased him.

“And we can split the host. Only half will have to cross.” That was Lord Horton again. “They will want to block the Gate. If that fails, they know we aim for not just the Twins but the lands sworn to Riverrun. Anywhere the outlaws are. They will want to hold the Ruby Ford.” Lord Horton motioned to the map once more. “Darry is the strongest keep in sight of the Crossroads. It’s on the southern side. Their fallback point. We’ll cut them off.” The split among themselves was decided and the meeting was dismissed.

“Ser Jonnel,” Lord Horton said. “With me.” Domeric nodded and joined him. Even on campaign, Lord Horton made sure that they always had their hour. “This march has done you good,” he said. “You made the right choice in coming here.” They’d wheeled around the camp, walking just along the riverbank. “To see you in good spirits again gladdens my heart, lad.”

Domeric nodded. “Aye, my lord.” He’d jumped at the chance to be away from his wife but now he was glad of his mistake. _The gods bring good out of every deed,_ Lord Horton had once told him. He was pleased to see it so. For all that he craved Sansa’s presence when he bed down at night, there was nothing quite like the company of other men, to laugh and sweat and sing together and end the day tired after a long, hard ride. After the Battle of the Green Fork, among his father’s host, it had never felt quite like this. And he would not have missed finding Harry for the world.

“I have a task for you,” Lord Horton said, then. “I’m sending Jon as well. You’ll be riding ahead of the vanguard. A small company. Twenty, thirty, no more. Find Tarly for us. Clear the outlaws from our path.”

Domeric stopped and stared, eyes wide. “My lord,” he said. “This is an honor.”

“An honor, yes, and a risk.” _One that Father would never take with me. _“But one with a glorious reward. I have all confidence you. I trust you will succeed.” Lord Horton reached up to place a hand on Domeric’s arm. His gesture meant the world. It was as if he was six-and-ten again, fresh off putting down a Redsmiths’ raid, receiving unlooked-for praise and the unexpected announcement that he’d be taking his vows upon their return.

“I will not fail you, my lord.”

“I know.” They resumed their walk along the riverbank, the water glassy in the dark. “That smile of yours,” Lord Horton continued. “So rare it is. I confess, my boy, you had me worried. How _dark_ they were, those things you said. Shocking, they were. Painful to hear. To see you act yourself again puts an old man’s mind at ease.” Lord Horton looked up at him, his eyes intent now. “Light has returned to your face. And I hope your mind as well. If not… victory will do you good.”

There was no need to retread the ground they’d covered in so many days. _A trial if you can, the Wall if you must. No man is so accursed as the kinslayer. _

“Aye, lad?”

“Aye, my lord. Of course.” He spoke the words but could not agree. _How could the gods curse me when I would do their will?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can imagine a world where your husband isn't in the room when you give birth and I don't like that world. Husbands rock. I feel for all of the women who delivered babies during the pandemic and weren't allowed to have their husbands there.
> 
> Harry's character is kind of ambiguous in canon, he is perhaps my most anticipated TWOW wild card. Is he going to be pro-Bolton or pro-Stark? Here I've given him a third option. Hope he doesn't come across as too much of a brute with the gross eating, he's been underfed. I think this characterization is logical based on Rickard Karstark's comments about Catelyn in ASOS, Rickard Stark's ban on Lyanna pursuing martial interests as reminisced by Ned while dealing with Arya, and the fact that there has Never Been A Queen In The North Nor A Ruling Lady of Winterfell. 
> 
> There was a scene at Harrenhal with Roose and Brienne. It involved a pink dress and a bear pit. If Domeric had been in his father's place, there would have been a pink dress, but no bear pit. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story. Next up we have a Domeric POV, a Lancel POV, and a Domeric POV. Then we're up North. 
> 
> On a personal note I live in the US Northwest and the whole place is on fire right now. All my stuff is backed up to the cloud, but it's not unfeasible that we lose connectivity (fingers crossed that nothing worse happens). We've already lost internet and power a bunch, if the situation escalates, safety is our first priority. Thanks 2020!
> 
> Next chapter goes up on September 25th if I still have internet access.


	47. Domeric XXIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While searching for Tarly's army, Domeric's party has an encounter in the woods outside Saltpans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence in this chapter.

Domeric rose with the knights and knelt in the rear while the whole host praised the Warrior. “Ser Jonnel kept the Seven_,” _he explained himself when Harry pressed. “We will walk to the wood when they are done.” After their silent vigil they broke their fast and joined the rest of the men in the day’s labor. Despite the Song of the Smith ringing in his ears in time with the hammer strikes, with eager hands he built his boat, and with eager arms he rowed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jon called out to him, the wind whipping through his sandy hair, his smile flashing in the autumn sun. Domeric tried to call out in return, but the air blew out his voice. As they passed the Quiet Isle, the silent brothers lined the surf and waved, the septry bells ringing out behind them.

Pulling Rhaegar ashore, he sloshed through the mud with the sun in his eyes. The boat he left with the rest, and he met Jon at the camp.

“I say we rest for an hour and take our midday meal. Then we ride. Set a league or three behind us. What say you?”

“I say _splendid_, Ser Jon.”

Jon looked around with a smirk, scanning the two dozen knights circled around him. An hour was just enough time for their company to wring out their boots and don dry clothes. They mounted up and flew, peeling off the road and into the wood that lay to their right, to the North. They chased the sun into the west, taking care to move as silently as they could, fanning out in pairs and regrouping together every night. In their company was a knight named Eddsion Crayne, who Domeric had met as a squire. In the light of the cookfire Domeric watched him thumbing his way through a small book bound in plain leather.

“Good evening, ser,” Domeric said. “Might I trouble you to ask what you are reading?”

Ser Eddison looked up and smiled brightly, his sandy hair shining gold in the light. “Of course, ser.” He opened the book to the first page. _The Path and the Way: An Abbreviated Rule of the Seven for Men of Chivalry. _Domeric’s smile died, and his interest turned to vapor. “I was making my nightly examination of conscience. Though, I suppose, it is time – we ought pray the Luminary now, or at the very least the Warrior’s septlet. That we have no septon in our company makes no excuse – ”

He looked to Jon, who nodded, muttering. “If we must.”

“We _must_, Ser Jon.”

Domeric made to leave.

“Won’t you join us, _Ser Jonnel_?” Ser Eddison said.

“Come off it, Eddie,” Jon said. “Don’t bother. You know – ”

“I do.” Ser Eddison left it at that, and Domeric stalked off into the forest. He took care not to stray too far, but as the trees drew him further in and wrapped him in their dark embrace of forest sounds, all the tightness in his chest gave way and he breathed easy. While the squirrels slept, he poached their acorns from the ground and collected them in his jar. Since they’d made port in Maidenpool he’d felt no need for leeching, so he’d left them with their field maester, but now he had the urge to ease his veins.

He drew his knife and dragged it along his palm, savoring the bite, and sighed. As the blood dripped from his hand, he chanced one of the acorns and fought the urge to spit. _The bitterer the better, _he thought. _The harsher trials make the stronger man. _As he chewed and his teeth grew sticky, the scent of cooking meat wafted his way, disappointing him. It seemed he must have water for at least convenience’s sake. Immediately he brought the open wound to his mouth and sucked. _Iron sharpens iron as blood yields blood. Mine for his. For Mother. _A nightbird gave a whistle and the silence broke. The gods had bid him go.

His old friend loneliness pressed a hand onto his shoulder when he returned to camp and heard the singing. _There._ That old ghost had stowed away on the ship and followed him unseen from Maidenpool. Perhaps a dozen voices mingled as one, before splitting into two, and three, and seven, in some otherworldly harmony only the gods could devise. He drew in a breath and held it, unable to stave off the envy. _So beautiful. _Then he let it go.

Haunting music, ancient rites, common prayers and a shared mission – all these bound the Andal knight at war. To his fathers of long-past yesteryear to the fellows at his shoulder, to the sons of the future yet unbegotten in a close-held dream, he who received the seven oils with the Warrior’s sword on his shoulder trod a well-worn road. _The Path of Light, the Way of Truth,_ the septons called it. To the star eternal it led, stretching through time, piercing beyond the ages. Domeric knew the words. He’d had to read it, just like he’d had to read _the Seven-Pointed Star_.

_Son, I bid you follow me. Brother, we shall walk together. Father, show me where to go. _

The Andals walked together, but the Northmen walked alone. Domeric thought back to Harrenhal, when he’d knelt at Harry’s side, when they’d brought more men with them, and more, and more, and more, praying for the little lost wolves. Such a congregation was not a normal sight; it had been borne of necessity, of the constrained and regimented days of an occupying force. And even then, by Father’s account, nothing of the sort had come to pass in the war for Robert’s throne. _They gathered because I asked them to, and I asked because I was lonely. _It was not the Northern way. No – in a Northern keep, in times of peace, one was more like to see the godswood empty but for a few lone figures at any hour of the day, staying for however long their heart so moved them. Walled off from each other by the private cells of their own hearts, their prayers were silent, separate, secret, unless one dared to speak. Aye, there was the hunt and the harvest, the planting and the feast, those common thanksgivings to the gods for their gifts from the earth, but that was where it ended. The earth. Now. When you closed your eyes and breathed your last, the trees took everything – all your memories, all your thoughts, all love of brother or wife or child – and when you woke again your mind was clear and new. A babe once again, called to dominate or die._ Today we hunt together and sip each other’s mead, but tomorrow the hart feasts on my flesh while you pick at my bones._

That was who he was and that was who he had to be.

But perhaps he did not have to be alone. _We could have a rite too. Just like at Harrenhal. Like in the age before the Andals. _There would be long stretches of silence, aye, but chanting in the Old Tongue, and sacrifice. The slaughter of the game, the stringing up the entrails, the burning of the bones – they could all pray to the tree _together_.

He pictured it as he ate and saw it when he dreamed.

***

Ser Uthor of the Red Stone Quarry was his partner that rainy day. He was Jon’s age, was wed to a Gulltown merchant’s youngest daughter, and had a son who had just learned to speak. The boy’s name was Horton, for Ser Uthor too held Lord Redfort in high esteem. Domeric liked Uthor well enough. They worked together well. When the sun was high, they came upon a little hamlet nestled snugly in the woods. They spied the buildings through the trees, but two dirty children spied them first. With a rustle of twigs and a swirl of dead leaves, the tiny watchers fled away, and then a cry flew up. It was a woman’s voice, scratchy and shrill.

“_Knights! Knights! _Brothers, help! Brothers, help!”

Ser Uthor took the silver trumpet from his side and blew, and out from the trees jumped fighting men. Not more than a dozen, but enough, shouting brown blurs that stank as they moved, mud smeared beneath their eyes and leaves threaded through their hair. _Haroo! Haroo! _The trumpet sounded, as the outlaws drew closer, only some deterred by the furious kicking of their horses’ hooves. In his ears the rushing began, and in the distance, the rumbling beats of their mounted companions sped along with the pumping of his heart.

He did not see Jon arrive, nor Ser Eddison, nor the rest. His world shrank to pink canvas and red paint, the groans of the dying and a woman’s wail.

_This is war. This is joy. This is what I was bred to do. _He was the hunter. The most dangerous thing in the forest, a servant of the gods. Rain and blood streamed down his sword as he drew it back from the dead man’s belly. More than a few drops but too scarce to form a pool, it seeped into the dirt, staining the winding crevices of the old oak’s roots. _This is my gift. _The trees lent him their eyes and when another brigand came up behind him, he thrust back his elbow and knocked him into the tangled roots. Wheeling around to face his attacker, he found the outlaw doubled over on the ground, moaning in pain. But the knife at his hip was readily accessible. With his boot, Domeric forced the man to roll onto his front, and with his spurred heel he held him down. 

“_Stop!” _A voice cried, and its tenor was familiar. The bearded speaker threw down his blade and threw up his hands, shouting at a man in a cloak the color of piss. “Yield! I yield! Lem, we must stop this! Stand down! Down, I say!”

The man in yellow wheeled and turned, and in his distraction Jon pinned him to the ground before handing him over to one of their riders, cursing the whole while. Around them all the hamlet’s few residents had gathered, women and children all.

“Knights, are ye? Come to kick us s’more? What colors do those be? Red for lions? Or red for the wolves? The wolves had men in red, yes they did.” The young woman who had shouted came forward, eyes raging, one fist in a ball, the other clutching a long breadknife across her breast. Her two children hid behind her skirts. “They – the brothers – they’ve been feeding us! Why are ye here? What do ye want? Our septon’s dead, our sept destroyed. No more maids or crystal jewels to carry off, aye? Only hags like me.”

Jon regarded her coolly. “We seek _Randyll Tarly _and his camp. We seek to bring peace to this country and drive the Red God from its soil. Have you not heard of the host come down from the Vale? Seek the banner of the Seven-Pointed Star and find your bread with them. Or. If you point us to Thoros of Myr, or to Tarly and his camp, find your bread with me.” Jon pat a saddlebag at his horse’s flank.

The woman did not answer and only stared with acid petulance.

“Ser Jon,” Domeric started. “What should we do with these?”

To ask had been for the outlaws’ benefit, for the knights had long since been instructed on how to treat them. “Afford them every opportunity to return to the Path of Light,” Septon Vortimer had insisted. “But if they persist in their apostasy without remorse, send them to the Stranger.”

It was well done that only the one had died so far. _An accident, that’s what it was. They were more, and we were only two._

“Who leads you? Who do you serve?” Jon’s voice rang out through the now silent clearing.

“We are the Knights of the Hollow Hill,” pisscloak said. “We follow the Lord of Light, and we serve the realm.” Then he spat.

Common highwaymen would have pled, would have grasped at any chance at flight. It was beyond doubt they were the Red Priest’s. Jon took a deep breath in through his nostrils and then exhaled with a misty puff. “Very well. We’ll begin.” Jon reached into the recesses of his cloak to retrieve his copy of _The Path and the Way._ With the tug of a smile he flipped to a page marked by a blue ribbon stitched with heaven’s lights. The pages dampened in the water.

Jon began to chuckle, bringing a hand to his mouth, massaging his cheeks, flexing his jaw. When he was done his face was hard, his eyes icy. Three times he cleared his throat and took a breath, and then he spoke again, all mirth gone.

“You there,” he said, pointing to the man in yellow. One of their company forced him up to his knees. “State your name.”

The man did not answer, and at his persistent silence the knight restraining him struck him in the gut. “Lem.”

“Lem of…”

“Lem Lemoncloak.”

“Lead us to Thoros of Myr and the unholy wight that was Lord Dondarrion, Lem Lemoncloak, and live another day.”

“Fuck you.”

“So be it.” Jon cleared his throat again, stifling a laugh. His breath misted against his gauntleted fist, dulling the red filigrees, and his countenance grew cold once more. “Lem Lemoncloak. Do you reject all false gods, who are but demons from the seven hells, all their glamors, and all their works? Do you reject _R’hllor?_”

Lem hocked back a spit and cackled. “The Lord o’ Light? False? Ha!” He barked. “It is your Seven who are false. I’ve seen the power in my Lord’s flames. Glamors, you’d call them, but his works are _miracles._ What do your Seven do? If they hear the voices of the weak at all, they do not care. Not the Lord of Light. Not R’hllor. When we call our Lord, he answers.”

Jon stepped closer, towering over Lem from his full height. “Do you believe in the Seven-Who-Are-One, who made this world and man with it, who came down from the heavens in the heart of a star, who slew the dead who walked in sin and left us the Light to show us the Way?”

“I believe the Seven are hogwash and horseshit.” Lem spat a third time.

At that Jon raised his knee and slammed it in Lem’s face. Blasphemy demanded a response.

“Do you believe that sins can be forgiven, in the Seven Heavens, the Seven Hells, and the Father’s judgment? Do you believe that the dead can be conquered, that souls can live free, that the Seven shall return to set the world to rights, and that the Light of the Seven will always prevail?”

In all the time since Domeric had known him, Jon had always been the least pious of Lord Redfort’s seven children. From whispered words and meetings held in confidence, Domeric knew he hardly prayed. Jon cared little for the Gulltown cause, unlike his siblings and his father. But as Jon read from _The Path and the Way, _Domeric heard Lord Horton speak. _It’s the words, _Domeric knew. _It’s poetry. _It had a life of its own beyond the reader, or even the poet, like a rite lived apart from the man who kept it.

Then the heavy silence broke. “No.” Lem spat out a bloody tooth, and the weakening rain washed out his wounds, the drizzle drops like soft snare drums on their silver plate.

“Then I, Jon Redfort, knight of the Seven Kingdoms, anointed by the seven oils and beneath the Seven’s light, do sentence you to die.” The sun broke through the clouds, and the hamlet’s clearing brightened, the sheens of water everywhere sparkling like crystals. Domeric looked up for a moment, keeping his foot steady on his own outlaw’s back. _A pity_. If not for the trees, he might have seen a rainbow.

Jon nodded at a member of their party who had no man to tend. The latter untied a rope from his horse and rejoined the knight holding Lem. They brought him to a sturdy tree, and the man in yellow danced.

Jon scanned the hamlet again, his eyes falling to rest on the bearded man who had first surrendered. “You. You’re next. State your name.”

“Harwin, ser.”

“Tell us about Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr.”

“I don’t think I will.” _There. _Domeric caught more than obstinance in Harwin’s voice. _This man is from the North._

“Stop,” Domeric said, playing up his native brogue. “This one keeps the old gods. It would not do to force him to confess.” Waving for a free hand, he stepped forward once another knight had taken up his charge. “Harwin. You have a Northern look about you, and a Northern way of speaking. Did you ride south with the Young Wolf? How did you come into such loathsome company?”

Harwin blinked before furrowing his brow. “I rode south with Lord Eddard, and by his order I joined Lord Dondarrion’s company to bring the Mountain to justice.”

“And you failed on that account.” Harwin looked down. _This man knows Sansa, _Domeric thought._ He knows her face and her voice and her smile. He knows Winterfell. _Harwin’s return would bring her joy.

“You failed the Lord of Winterfell,” Domeric continued. “And you failed the King in the North. You tarried here with the outlaws and made Northern soldiers bleed. I charge you now. _Do not fail again. _Leave these men and serve your Queen.”

Harwin shook his head, frowning deeper. “Arya Stark? Bolton holds her. The Hound took her to the Twins.” _A pretender, that’s what Sansa said. _The Hound was a Lannister man.

Drawing closer, Domeric offered Harwin a hand and brought him to his feet. With a hard stare into Harwin’s flummoxed eyes, Domeric shook his head too. “I speak not of the younger sister, but of the elder. I speak of Sansa Stark.”

Harwin’s beard quivered when he gaped in shock. “They say she _jumped_ – you say she lived?”

“Aye.”

“How?”

Domeric’s tale was not meant for such ears as these. Better repeat the rumors they’d heard along the way. “They said His Grace could wear the form of a wolf. They say Her Grace can fly.”

But this tack did not take with Harwin, who bristled with offense. “Do not jape with me, _ser_. Who are _you _to claim such things? How do you know it’s _her_?”

The raw accusation in Harwin’s voice took Domeric aback._ She is my wife, _he wanted to say. _There is naught I do not know._

“I am Ser Jonnel Holt of White Harbor,” he said, but the words all felt so _wrong_. “At the Battle of Duskendale I was wounded. I was left for dead and made for home. I had enough coin for Gulltown. Lord Royce took her in and took me on.” He clenched his jaw. “I served as her shield for a time. Her grace is a kind young lady, fair and lovely. Who loves to sing and sew. Florian and Jonquil, that’s her favorite. _Six Maids in a Pool. _And she is fond of lemon cakes.” _And I am fond of her._

Harwin looked down. “That’s her,” he whispered, and then he raised his head. “If you were her shield, why are you so far from her now?”

_He knows, _Domeric thought. He could see it in Harwin’s scowl. _Another accusation, and this one worse. _He did not respond. “Ser Uthor,” Domeric said quietly. “Take Harwin here back to camp.” Uthor nodded, tied the erstwhile Stark man to his horse, and started back downriver. “And see to it that he speaks.”

Only a few more outlaws remained. Those with tongues as willful as Lem’s went to the tree beside him, leaving only one who meekly said his proper _I do_s. He looked to the woman who’d held the knife and sobbed.

“We are done here, then,” said Jon. The women and the children stared, shrinking back into their homes. “Lads, let us be on our way – ”

“Ser,” interrupted Ser Eddison, a look of disgust on his face. “Ser Jon. I beg you wait. Our work here is not yet done.” Ser Eddison motioned to the ransacked sept. “This place, we must rebuild it. These _people_, their sustenance is gone. My good ser, I would stay, I would hunt them their week’s meal – ”

“Ser Eddison. Our object here is Tarly.”

“No, _ser,_” Eddison Crayne replied. “Our object here is the defense of the Faith.” He removed his helmet and shook out his hair, sandy and sweat-slick. Then he fished out the crystal star which hung from a thong over his breast, and unclasped the Warrior’s septlet from his wrist. Seeking out the two smallest children, he pressed his treasures into their tiny, grubby hands. Then Ser Eddison straightened and faced Domeric again, the fervor in his stare unsettling.

“The Red God fed them for a moon. The Red God gave them succor. But the Red God’s fare doth rot the gut, and the Red God’s comfort ends in torment. The Light of the Seven will sustain them for all their lives.”

Jon shrugged. “Very well, then. Stay. It’s Hawick’s game anyhow. And Hawick’s trees. Return to us when your work is done. Your partner will stay behind.” He was the first to mount up, and as he waited for the rest, Ser Eddison and his partner untied their saddlebags and distributed their day’s ration of food. They left the hamlet three men short to the sound of children singing.

When the woods were thick again, they dispersed. His partner that day was long gone, so Domeric rode alone. _R’hllor’s flames scorch everything the wind touches, _he thought, _but the wind blows the ash away. _With luck it would be as simple to stamp out any hold Stannis’ men might have taken in the lands hugging the Wall. _Scrape off the black and the living wood lies beneath. The trees are old, and their roots run deep. _Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the mottled shadows dance behind the grey mist of his breath, so he stopped, and watched. Above, branches shook, and leaves rustled, and a squirrel jumped, and then all was still. He sighed and touched his hand to the bark before starting up again.

“The trees are old,” he whispered into Rhaegar’s ear, leaning forward. “The trees are _ours_.”

That night, when he caught up to his fellows, he found them at prayer. Hanging back from the clearing where they made their camp, pulled a soft acorn from the pouch in his pocket, and began to chew, cutting his palm and mingling in his own blood. He closed his eyes, and when they opened, it was night. He joined his companions at their supper, speaking little. When he lay in his bedroll, he did not admit why the day’s events perturbed him.

***

The encounter with the outlaws broke up a series of uneventful days. They’d found foxes when they’d sought the boar. Patience was a virtue and stalking was an art, and to both, Domeric was no stranger. The stillness, the lull – all of it was par the course for the hunt. They pressed onward, watching, waiting, and before the week was out, the companions they’d left to rebuild the forest village joined them.

It was a cold afternoon when they caught the first sign of their quarry, and his partner was Jon.

“Quiet,” Domeric said. “Stop.” He breathed in deep and dismounted._ Horses, and not mine. Smoke too. _Closing his eyes, he trained his ears, and stripped away everything that was not forest. There – that might have been a shout. And that – that might have been the clanging of a pot. And _that_ was much too far to be Rhaegar’s whinny…

“Do you think?”

“Aye.” They waited to be sure. He and Jon stood there for a long while, the sun giving way to evening gloom, and then, amidst the chirping of the nightbirds, emerged an unmistakable sound. Boots on twigs and leaves. Footsteps, and _whistling_. _Bessa the Barmaid._ Closer they came, and louder, and then what he beheld before his eyes drove him to utter glee. A drunken lout in a green surcoat over dull chainmail rolled down his breeches and took out his cock, pissing against an ancient oak. He shook the stream up and down in time with the upbeat tune. When at last the hiss of water died, the man-at-arms stuffed himself back in and stalked away.

Jon’s eyes shone like ice in the moonlight as he nodded like a fool, barely repressing a giggle. Neither spoke until the unlucky pisser was out of earshot.

“Perfect.” Domeric felt his smile reach his ears as he pressed his back into the tree, peering round with as little noise as he could.

_Tarly. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Northmen in the south post Wot5K are like pokemon - can you catch them all??
> 
> Can't believe it's been over a year since I first posted this story. Wow! Thanks for everyone who's been supporting this story and reading along no matter when you first decided to click. My goal is to get this bad boy finished by EOY 2021, which seems sustainable to me at the current writing pace.
> 
> Next chapter we're back with Lancel again. See you all on October 8/9.


	48. Lancel II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle to hold the Ruby Ford.

Stern rays of dawn were sneaking through the window drapes when the bangs began.

_“Lancel!” _The voice without was Father’s. “_Lancel! Rise!” _He slipped on a dressing gown and debarred the door to find Father fully armored. “A rider in the night. The Valemen have broken out of the pass. They’re pouring out in strength.” Father slammed his fist against the doorframe. “We cannot wait for Tarly.”

“I understand,” he said. Behind him his wife sat up, all matted hair and sleep-stiff eyes. He turned around. “I must away, my lady. Godspeed.”

No one had expected a bloody sheet anyway. “My things – where are they? My kit, my – ”_they’re secret, they’re precious – _“my _trunk - _”

“In the lord’s chamber. Quickly, now.” Father helped him armor up. No squire was to see him as he was. Not until he was fully recovered.

“My _trunk, _Father – ”

“Gods be good, Lancel, what could you possibly need?”

“My Luminary,” Lancel said evenly. “My _Seven-Pointed Star._” _The precious things Jaime gave me. _“I will not leave without them.”

“All right, then.” Father’s jowls drooped but soon his verve rebounded, and he shouted for a serving man. “Take care this gets to Ser Lancel’s packhorse.”

They hurried to the yard, all the bells in Darry castle clanging around them to rouse what men remained at rest. They passed the sept and Lancel stopped short. It mattered not that he wasn’t ready, not when today might be his last chance. “Father. I would see the septa before we go – ”

“Seven Hells, Lancel, _there is no time right now. _Wait until we reach the Crossroads. There’ll be a septa there.”

Just like that, their host was up and marching again. Father pushed them hard. Lancel tracked the passing of the hours by the arc of the sun, making his best guess at his seven times to pray. _I confess. I confess. I confess…_

They reached the Ruby Ford before sunset, but the light was too scarce to ferry their host across. They made camp at the Crossroads, just within sight of the river and the famous inn.

“Report.” Sweat-slick and stinking of horse, Father addressed an exhausted-looking large knight who, in deafening tones, Ser Lyle immediately identified as Ser Raymund Frey. “How many?”

Ser Raymund grit his teeth, dark hair plastered to his forehead. Cracking his knuckles and swinging his jaw back and forth, he said, “Five thousand, perhaps? Ten by now. Their numbers grow by the hour. Seven hells, my riders said that they _did not seem to stop _– ”

The Mountain drew up to his full height, great and terrible. “I _told _you to _hold it_!” he roared. “I told you to _pin them in. Harass them! _I left you near _two thousand _swords. What of them? Did they not – ”

“Two thousand men cannot stand against _twenty thousand – _”

“And at the base of the mountains scarce _twenty _can pass through.” The Mountain rounded on Father. “I told you. We _dallied. _We ought to have _marched – _ ”

“Ser Gregor. Once again you speak out of turn. We tarried _but a day_. The men needed rest before marching onward. They could not have kept this pace – ”

It was true. They had but a few short hours settled in the Darry camp before breaking it. _And the foot is still walking._ In half the men Lancel could have sworn he saw his own face, and not just in their eyes. Tired and wary, as they advanced into the worsening cold, the clearing air made it plain: morale was low. _These men love the Seven and are loath to fight_. To take up arms and defend Joffrey against Stannis had been one thing. The fiery heart was a foreign banner. But this…

“I say we _strike_,” boomed Strongboar. “Advance in force. Ford the river overnight and meet them in the morning. We have the numbers.” He looked around. “Who marches at their head? _Ser_ _Walton Frey_? My cousins, I swear to you, my sword will pierce his heart. Rest assured that none of you shall be made a kinslayer – ”

“I say we _wait_,” supplied Ser Forley Prester, his voice as pinched as his nose. “We must hold the ford and meet Tarly when he arrives – ”

“Ser Kevan,” Ser Raymund cut in. “You hold command here.”

Father stroked his fading whiskers, his expression taut and tense. “The ford must be defended. One thousand on the south bank, five hundred on the north. The rest will march.” Ser Lyle was about to speak but Father continued. “The van will cross tonight. The center, tomorrow. The rear the night after that.” Scanning the column behind them in the dim firelight, Father set his jaw. “These were Tywin’s men. Their spirits flag, their steps fall flat. This fight they face has left them wracked with guilt before they’ve spilled a drop of blood. They must have a lion at the front to remind them what they’re fighting for. House Lannister and the Iron Throne.” Father’s face grew steely before he spoke again. “All my life I have served to build up this house. It will not be on my watch that it falls from so high a perch. I like it not, but the Valemen have forced our hands. All of you – have courage. Tarly comes, and when he does – a decisive victory in the field will show the realm these Seven Kingdoms, now united, _will not_ be sundered again.”

Father left it to Lancel and Tyrion to man the southern bank and ensure Tarly a proper reception. Clegane and Brax and Strongboar were already across the water when he took his leave. “You’ll have riders with reports. Keep him informed. When he comes, then you cross.” Father clasped Lancel on the shoulder, his gauntlet flashing in the dark. “Godspeed, my son. Be well, be _strong_. When next we meet we will drink the cup of victory together.”

“Goodbye, my father. Godspeed.” With that, Lancel watched Ser Kevan Lannister and his tall destrier board the tiny rowboat with a rock, a ripple, and a soft splash. The flame of his torch cast his kit in golden splendor. _Lannister. Lannister. Lannister, _it said. In the dark with his snarling helm, he looked something like the Yi Tish Lion of Night of legend. _Another judge, _Lancel thought. _Another punisher._

He stood on the bank of the black Trident for a long while, his breath clouding before his face. Even now men were rowing across the river, and the light of many torches held aloft over the boats seemed a fleet of wandering stars. Lancel closed his eyes. A clarity came over him amidst the sound of rushing water, growing closer, stronger, like a gust of mighty wind, neither hot nor cold. Clarity, but not quite peace. Instead he felt a grave apprehension akin to the stomach-turning shiver of standing not quite at a cliff’s edge. _One push and I shall fall. _His heart began to pound, and his eyes flew open. _Stars above, and stars below. _Points of white on black forever. He could not call it beautiful. Sublime, that was the word for it_. _He had to avert his gaze.

In his own kit he was shaking. _I have to go. _There was a sept they’d passed on this side of the river. The Crossroads had the larger one but people the south bank needed their food too._ Right, left, right, left_. The torchlight flickered in his hand as he stumbled along.

With a creak the door swung open, and when he stepped over the threshold, he fell. Heart racing almost to the point of pain, he clambered about for the handle of his still-lit torch.

“Septa?” he called. “Septa?”

But only silence answered.

The dust sullied his kit and settled on his tongue, but Lancel didn’t care. Never rising from his knees, he crawled to the place where the Mother would have been if she’d had a statue. Beneath her altar lay a mass of stumpy votive candles with impossibly short wicks, the lot of them nearly melted together. A brief motion of his hand was all it took to light them all and show him the Mother’s face. Sketched out in charcoal on the humble wall, she gazed down in pity as Lancel cried.

“Have mercy on him,” he prayed aloud, the dirt welcoming his tears. “He’d said we’d meet again. Have mercy on him, _please_. Judge him not too harshly. He is my father and I love him and I _want_ to see him again. I want Mother and Willem and Martyn and Janei to see him again. I – I know – he has done wrong – he told me so – ”

_Yes, I have regrets, _Father had said to him, when he’d been called to squire, _but I would not undo those deeds. Even the foulest and the most sordid. The ones that make me want to retch. That’s the Second Tenet, Lancel. I am a knight, as you are to be. The way of the knight is obedience to his father, his captain, his king. That’s a knight’s duty. The Smith smiles on those who do their duty._

But how could the Smith smile on Father now? All that obedience, and for what? Service to House Lannister and the Iron Throne, what the godsworn now called an _icon of sin and death and dark. _Possessed by some Valyrian wyrm, a vile spirit snaked its way up through all who sat betwixt its bloody barbs, blackening their innards until it rot their souls. He’d known it to be true. They’d said that King Robert had been a fine man, once, and a good one. They’d said Cersei had been a sweet girl. Perhaps before, but after? And it was best not to think about Joffrey. _Oh Tommen, poor Tommen, what will it do to you? _

Lancel began to sob, his nose wetting like a kitten’s. “I can’t, Father. You _can’t_. He _can’t – _” But whatever it was that Kevan Lannister could not do, flinch from his duty was the first among them.

_Mother, Mother, help him, please. Hear me, please. _“He’ll die out there. There – there is no way that he can win. That _we _can win. Not when our hearts aren’t in it. Not when we fight against justice itself. Not when we fight against _you_. Oh…”

A statue would have been better, for he could not embrace a wall. Lancel fumbled out his Luminary and fought to regulate his breathing, and with each successive gulp of air, each pad of his thumb and forefinger along the crystal beads, his body steadied, and his mind. The sept had no crystal chandelier, so instead he stared through the flames and regarded each of the gods’ faces in turn, lighting every candle as he made his way around the seven walls.

“I am ready now,” he told the Mother, when he was done. He would say all of it to the first septa he found, but he said it to Her first. “I know what I must do. I know it will be hard. I know that it will hurt. But I can suffer every hurt when I know it is for you.” Rising to his feet, he lit the dead torch on a candleflame and kissed the Mother’s face. “Thank you,” he said, and then he shut the door.

It seemed not a moment after slumber took him that Tyrion was shaking him awake.

“Up, up, cousin,” he drawled. “Come now, Lancel. Ser Forley has already made the crossing.” Cold light drifted through his crimson tent, crowning Tyrion’s pale hair with a sheen of white and setting a gleam in his one green eye. Lancel sat up before the tiny, twisted hand could pinch his cheek. 

“Pardon me, Tyrion,” Lancel said. “Time ran away from me this evening past. I was at the sept.”

“Yes, yes, _praying._ A fat lot of good that’s done you. Why don’t you pray some more? Another seven times seven times seven times on those pretty beads of yours. Perhaps _then _the gods will answer and send us Tarly.”

Brushing off the barb, Lancel hid his sigh with a stretch and feigned a yawn. “Of course, my lord Hand.”

“Join me in my tent for breakfast.”

“Yes, my lord.”

When he was dressed and his morning offering was done, Lancel walked to where Tyrion had set his table. Slim sausages, hard bread, and oat gruel lay spread on steel plates, the dregs of the Crownlands’ bounty. _Even for us Lannisters. _When he sat, Tyrion nodded at him, and poured out a glass of wine, piling high his helping. Lancel folded his hands and thanked the Smith before taking a crust of bread.

“Wine?” Tyrion asked.

“No, my lord. No thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” There was little to discuss, so they ate in silence but for the purring of the brazier. Tyrion ate with little grace. He slurped his food and licked his fingers. Manners mattered not to him at all. It had always been so.

Lancel finished his food quickly, but on Tyrion continued, so he watched. That scar across had not always been there. His cousin had not always been so ugly. Before, he’d had a nose. _We are both changed men, _Lancel thought. _That night transformed us both. The night of the green light. _They hadn’t spoken much since. Tyrion had had his own convalescence, and they’d been kept in separate rooms. Then, Father had told him, Tyrion had been tasked with finding the Lady Sansa, and Roose Bolton’s heir. _Both fruitless searches to keep him busy and out of Uncle Tywin’s way. _Lancel could not blame him for never coming to visit. In truth, Lancel was grateful. He wouldn’t have known what to say. _I heard she tried to kill you, _perhaps. _She almost killed me too._

And now she’d done it again.

Lancel did not know how to broach the subject, so he watched his cousin more. That sellsword that had shadowed him was nowhere to be seen, for Cersei had bought him off with a marriage and Stokeworth lands. And his wild mountain men had been spent in the Reach. _He has no protection. _It dawned on Lancel that he was now the best-loved Lannsiter between the Trident and King’s Landing.

Tyrion’s once-smug eyes had grown shifty, narrow, darting back and forth as if he had a guilty conscience. _Do you have a guilty conscience, Tyrion? What hides behind that smirk of yours?_ Lancel would never ask, of course, for Tyrion would never give the likes of him a straight answer.

Done with his food but not with his drink, Tyrion was now thumbing his way through a large leather-bound book, his stubby legs swinging back and forth and knocking against the wood. He noticed Lancel staring.

“One of Pycelle’s works. _An Account of the Battle of the Trident and Robert’s Triumph on the Ruby Ford, with Testimony from Four Commanders. _I hope to find some measure of help.”

“Robert won,” Lancel said.

“The _Valemen_ won. _For _Robert.” Tyrion pointed at a map. “Stark, Arryn, and Baratheon marched from Riverrun to the Crossroads to link up with the rest of the Knights of the Vale, and some Northmen too. Arryn could only sail with so many down from Gulltown. The rest marched down the High Road. And you know how far the Wall is. In the time it took for Stark to reach Riverrun, half his host had not yet crossed the Neck.” Lancel nodded. “It might have been a close thing had Rhaegar beaten Robert to the river. But Robert got there first, and the rebels held both sides. When Rhaegar tried to cross… well. You know why they call it the Ruby Ford.”

Lancel had to come up with a question else Tyrion might needle him again. “And who were the four commanders whose testimony makes up this book? Do they yet live? Do we stand against them?”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow and grinned. “An excellent question, Lancel. I did not know you were capable of such things.” He flipped back to the beginning. “One is dead for certain, another gone without a trace. Of the two who still walk the earth, one lies far away, and the other challenges us for sure.”

Lancel blinked, nodding again. To endure his cousin’s barbs was just one more thing he’d resolved to suffer_._ As he’d figured, Tyrion continued, his finger running over the parchment. “Lord Hoster Tully. Ser Barristan Selmy. Lord Roose Bolton. And Lord Horton Redfort.”

“I see,” Lancel said, leaving the conversation at that, and Tyrion to his reading.

For the rest of the day Lancel milled about the camp. “To raise morale,” he told Tyrion. He watched as a few sundry men from the camp on the northern bank rowed across to return some ferryboats, and build more to replace the ones they’d left behind and ensure enough provisions for Tarly’s men. Thrice he stopped to hail the Seven as the sun arced across the sky, and each time more men came to join him. In between, the stacks of boats grew higher and higher, and familiar songs from the Westerlands drifted up from the river mist. Lancel whistled along.

The afternoon waned, the golden sun sinking into a red western sky. To the east the sky was pink, dimming into purple, and soon it would be black. One last boat and one last rower pulled his way south. Lancel hailed him when he arrived.

“Ser!” The soldier shouted. He was wearing Prester colors, the red bull on ermine. “Ser Lancel!” The man’s arms were twitching. His whole body shivered as he trudged through the river mud. Lancel did him a courtesy and motioned for another man-at-arms to pull the boat in. “Ser Lancel. I have a report.”

“Thank you, soldier. Come. Walk with me. We will meet the Lord Hand together.” The Prester cloak had been splashed to soaking, so Lancel lent him his. _If I am cold, then he is colder. _When they passed a torch he grabbed it and held it between them both. “Here we are.” The guards let them into Tyrion’s tent at once. Lancel nudged the soldier closer to the brazier. “Lord Tyrion. The report.”

“Go on,” Tyrion said, still frowning into his book.

“My lord – ” the soldier chattered. “My lord Hand. Tarly is not here – ”

“Yes, yes, we all can see that. Go on.”

“We thought – we thought he might have crossed at Saltpans instead of waiting for us, but – none of our riders have returned.” The solider swallowed. “My lord. Fifteen thousand Valemen have broken into the Riverlands. The word is Strongboar’s dead. Ser Kevan and Ser Flement yet fight. Ser Forley, he was cut off from the rest – he wants to know if we should fall back and cross – ”

“I suppose he does. Ser Forley.” Tyrion’s mangled face shone sinister against the fire. He twisted his hands together before speaking again. “Tell Ser Forley he will not be crossing. We will.”

Tyrion’s beady black eye flashed, his gaze training on Lancel. They stared at each other for a moment swift in dying, a wordless acknowledgment, perhaps the only one of its kind to ever be. _We do not understand each other, and perhaps we never will. But we are one in this._

Lancel raised an eyebrow. “And the southern bank?”

“Tarly will hold it. When he arrives.” The Prester man scowled at that but nodded nonetheless. “On your way, soldier.”

The left scarce a score of men to hold the southern bank, with one Ser Rupert Lannley of Lannisport in charge. “Near enough to a Lannister for Tarly, oughtn’t you say?” said Tyrion.

“Yes, my lord.” Lancel had long since resolved to keep him sweet. There was little the Lord Hand could do to prepare the camp for the crossing, and soon, he disappeared with his effects. Night had fallen, and the shouts and sweat of working men misted in the cold, the light of the torches hazy against the fog-draped river.

And the whispers began too. Lancel heard them as he passed the queue of men waiting to board.

“What’s he playing at? Is the Imp _trying _to kill us? We’re safer here.”

“Don’t be an arse. He knows what he’s doing. He held the city from Stannis before we arrived – ”

Catching sight of Lancel stopped their words. “Fear not,” he said. “The Warrior asks us courage.” The men nodded, and after a “ser” and a salute they fell silent once again.

He made the crossing with as little speaking as he could manage. Even through the night fog the _plunk _and _hiss _of their comrades’ oars pierced the air as they threw the water back, a rhythmic catch and release in almost perfect time. Lancel had but to point their boat towards the northern shore and steer when they drew too close to the others. _Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Thump. Thump. Thump. _Even and steady the soldiers rowed, and even and steady beat his heart. Quiet but for those drums in the deep, the river passage seemed to him a strange threshold, a portal to the realm of greater men. He reached into his cloak and thumbed the Luminary in his pocket. _I can, Mother. I will, _he thought, and he watched the shoreline grow.

The camp was tense, if not in shambles, when they landed, dreading the far-off dawn. Half a hundred daub-and-wattle shanties had once stood here, but now the only structures that remained were the famous Crossroads Inn and the small stone sept. Elsewise there were only pavilions, tents and hastily-built palisades. From the inn’s sloping roof, the raging bull hung beneath the rampant lion and Tommen’s standard, each purple in the dark. Ser Forley had fallen back.

Lancel thanked his rowers and left them to see to their boat after his horse and his things had been carted away. He looked up at the inn again in guilt. _Behind stone walls I’ll lay my head tonight, and them only flimsy canvas._ With so much of the host gone, now, he’d been afforded the title of commander. It was just one more thing he did not deserve. _No. _He had to stop that line of thought. _The Mother put me here. _

“Rest now,” he told his men. “Sleep if you can. We march at dawn, or before.” For his part he made straight for the sept, sturdier and better-appointed than the one across the river. Two stories tall and with frosted-over window panes, it was as respectable as any in the outer rings of Lannisport or King’s Landing. Suspended beneath a small plain dome by seven sturdy chains was a crystal orb that glittered as it moved, scattering starlight over seven stone statues, each the height of a doll. He did not need to shout for it was plain that the septa was long gone. But for the gods he was alone.

Kneeling before the altar, he lit a votive candle and kissed the Mother’s hands and feet. “Obedience,” he said. “It is you who I obey. I am at peace with it.” Though his weary eyes bid him sink downward he pushed himself to his feet and kissed the Mother once again. So soothing it was to touch her stony form, just like his own mother’s hands. “Have mercy on those who fight and die today. On all of us who live.”

On his way out, he made the sign of the star as he passed beneath the Stranger’s eyes. “_Willem_,” he whispered. Then he bit his tongue. “_Uncle Tywin, Joffrey, King Robert,” _he forced himself to say. “Gods have mercy on them all.” With his back pushing against the door, he made the sign of the star again, and he returned to the cold and clambering world.

“Father,” he mumbled. _I am tired too._ As if in a dream he floated to the inn, through the warm common room, and up the stairs. His squire from House Serrett hailed him when he’d reached the topmost floor, and jumped to relieve him of his kit. Then Serrett was gone and he closed his eyes in sleep.

For the third time in as many days, an invader breached the depths of Lancel’s slumber, this time with harsh bangs on the door. “Ser Lancel,” called the guard outside his door. “My Lord Hand would see you in his chamber.”

Ser Forley was already there by the time Lancel entered. “Ah, Ser Lancel,” he said, in that reedy voice of his. “I am glad that you are here. Perhaps you could lend me your support as I give Lord Tyrion counsel. Surely, you agree, this crossing you have made was folly. You are a knight and received a knight’s training, while Lord Tyrion – well. We all agree his mind shines sharper than most all men, but he focused his studies on other matters. Pardon me, my lord, but you are _not _a martial man. To hold the southern bank would have been the safer course – ”

Tyrion glowered. “Yes, yes, Prester, it _would have been_, were Tarly not on his way – ”

Ser Forley flared his nostrils like the bull on his breastplate. “My lord. _We must face the facts_. Any _sane man_ would conclude that Tarly is not coming, or else he will be _too late.” _Ser Forley’s face fell, and his tone turned pleading. “I beg you, my lord, think of the men outside. To send them out would be to condemn them all to death. Heed my words, Tyrion Lannister, _please_ – we must make the crossing again…” As his voice trailed off, Ser Forley looked to Lancel for aid.

Lancel kept his thoughts off of his face. “I would not doubt my lord Hand here, Ser Forley. He has been blooded and seen more battle than I. And King’s Landing would not have held off Stannis if not for him.”

Ser Forley blinked, his face reddening. Tyrion spoke again.

“Ser Forley. Thank you for your input. We march in a few short hours. Ready your men. That is final.”

The heir to Feastfires threw up his hands and left the room. Tyrion studied Lancel and motioned towards the window. Sliding out of his seat, he grabbed a cup of wine, waddled forward, and followed the moonlight to its source. From their vantage point, the highest for miles and miles, they could not see the clashing hosts, but Lancel knew that there the battle raged, where the River Road met the High Road, between the rolling hills and the distant Mountains of the Moon.

“Good,” Tyrion said. “He’s gone. Oaf.” After a snort and a smirk, he spoke again. “I must thank you for your support these days past, Lancel. It was hoped for, but, ah, _unexpected._” Neither made to face each other, but in the windowpane they saw each other straight. “I cannot say that Tarly is coming,” Tyrion continued, “and I cannot say we will win. Ser Forley is nothing if not very _sane_, after all.” Lancel nodded, and Tyrion gave him a wry smile. “I cannot confess to have followed this _schism_ between Gulltown and the Stoney Sept,” he said, “but perhaps you have?”

Lancel shook his head. “I have only prayed.”

“Only,” scoffed Tyrion. “But perhaps that is enough. _By their fruits, you shall know them._ Yes, I know you think it too. But I never would have thought that _Hugor_’s words would be whispered in dark corners of the Red Keep like some scandalous secret.” Tyrion fingered the lion brooch at his doublet and laughed. “I have never cared much for any of that, but it seems I ought to try, at least for appearances’ sake. I _do _want to go home. It seems it would befit me to become a pious man.”

Lancel nodded. Tyrion’s meaning was clear. Outside the door sounded the hurried steps of a servant who’d come late when called. He was about to speak, if only to acknowledge Tyrion’s words, when they were interrupted by a series of furious raps on the door.

“My lord!” called the guard without. “A rider from the front.”

“Send him in.”

Pale as death and stinking of horse, sweat dripped from the soldier’s face as he opened his mouth. His knees buckled and his hand trembled when he spoke, eyes darting back and forth between the two cousins of Lannister. “My lord – ser – ” He swallowed and collected himself, straightening his back.

“Lord Tyrion. Ser Lancel. I have a message from Captain Lester. Ser Kevan has fallen.” _Father. _Lancel bit the inside of his cheek as his throat constricted with pain. _Mother, did you tell me? Did I know? _He closed his eyes and heard the soldier’s voice crack. “Captain asks if Tarly is coming. They – they cut us off from Ser Flement – my lord – Captain wants to know if we ought fall back – ”

Tyrion raised a hand and cut the soldier off. “Rest, ser. I thank you for your service. Ser Lancel and I will confer and send a rider in your place. You have spent yourself this night.” He motioned for a guard, an old Lannister hand. “Lum. Find this man a bed.” Lum obeyed and they were left alone.

His ears stopped working and his heart grew light. _I know, I know, I know. _All the weight in his bones had risen up like incense smoke and he but hovered with his feet touching the floor. He closed his eyes.

_When next we meet we will drink the cup of victory together._

_Yes, Father, we will._

Sound returned, and somewhere close a hearth crackled and roared, and before he opened his eyes again the world was warm and red, and he knew the Mother held him in her tender palm_._ Below, Tyrion waved his arms, his mismatched eyes wide.

“Lancel,” swam Tyrion’s voice. “Lancel.” The expression of compassion was something he’d never seen on Tyrion’s face before. “With me, Lancel. Are you all right?”

“Yes, my lord.” Lancel straightened his spine and rolled his shoulders. He felt more vital and hale than he ever had in his life.

“I am so sorry, Lancel. For your father. For everything.”

“You are forgiven.” His time had come. _Everything_ mattered not at all.

“Thank you.” After a swallow and a long pause, Tyrion started again. “I fear I have need of you. Can you ride?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. This news changes nothing. What I will ask only you can do. This task requires a Lannister.” Tyrion gestured with his hand, and Lancel knelt, and listened.

***

In his chambers he stood facing the door while Serrett strapped him into his best harness. He looked not so fine as Jaime, but it would have to do. _I am a lion of the Rock today. _Piece by piece the kit came on, and as the squire encased him in shining splendor, Lancel prayed.

_O Warrior, who brought peace to a kingdom besieged by dark and death and chaos, ignite in my heart the fire of courage. Grant strength to my arm, bite to my blade, and speed to my arrows... Gird me in fortitude, that I may resist all temptations, and never stray from the Path of Light, the Way of Truth. O Warrior, O Seven-who-are-One, mold me in your likeness, that I may be worthy of your heavens’ light._

When he was done only the golden helm was left. Plumed with a crimson rooster’s tail, it had been a gift from Grandfather Harys. “Thank you, Serrett,” he said. “I will take care of that myself.” Serrett accepted his dismissal, but then his mouth grew slack, agape in terror.

“Ser Lancel,” he said. “The river…”

Lancel turned around, and through the window he saw the horizon aglow, a thin orange line between black sky and black water. The southern camp was burning.

_This changes nothing,_ he told himself. _From this path I must not stray. _“To the Lord Hand, Serrett. Tell him what you saw. Then back with me to bear my banner. We ride.”

“Yes, ser.” Serrett said. Lancel thanked him, and he hurried away.

In his trunk lay those two priceless things. It was time to retrieve them now. “Mother,” he said, as he unsheathed his own sword, wrapped it up, and replaced it with the finer one. “Father.” There was a spare swordbelt for the other, and just room enough on his hip for a trumpet too. He made the sign of the star one last time and he was ready.

Around the inn the infantry was scrambling, shouts ringing out into the stars. One hundred heavy horse Lancel had behind him, and in the darkest part of the night they galloped through the rolling foothills that meant the Vale was close. Up and down and up and up and up, north and east, misty breath before them, clouds of dust behind.

And then they saw it. Cresting the top of a taller hill, it was there: two hosts engaged in an uneven struggle, the one pushing the other back and trampling its dead, inch by inch, while its numbers only grew and grew.

A green demon flashed behind his eyes and turned his gut with scents of smoke and the sounds of wildfire. _No, _he told it. _No, begone. I’m not afraid of you._

_Be strong, _said a voice, and Lancel knew it was his father’s shade. _Be swift, be tireless. _Those were his mother’s words. Whatever fatigue he’d felt building in his muscles rolled off of him like rain, and he was seized by a second wind.

As they advanced towards the carnage, a grand rumble rose out of the east. Squinting into the distance, he could make out the figures of many horses surging forward, black against the strengthening light. Amidst the blare of silver trumpets the sound of hoofbeats grew, and then, gradually and then all at once, what was but a moment ago but a growing shadow became a gleaming silver sea, on which sailed boats flying every color of the rainbow.

Over the hills and against the mountains the din of battle echoed, and ever louder came the cavalry’s stampede. Ever larger loomed the rainbow banners, the Seven-Pointed Star now clear before his eyes. _Behold, the might of the gods, _the image said to him. _Behold their glory and bow down._

The lightness in his heart returned, and he leaned forward in the stirrups, arse up, charging with such speed he must have had angel’s wings. _It’s time. It’s time. _Lancel raised his hand and his company slowed to a canter.

“To me!” He cried, but he heard his father’s voice instead. “_To me! _Westermen! Lannister! _Lannister, Lannister, Lannister!_”

_“Lannister, Lannister, Lannister!” _The rearmost line of men shouted. Even as he rode, Lancel could see a hundred heads turning in a grand wave, back and back and back. Word of their coming spread, and like a stream around a rock, the army parted, leaving them room to hurtle towards the front, to the line of mounted knights who bore the Seven-Pointed Star.

“_Halt_!” Lancel cried, pulling at the reins and squeezing with his legs. “_Halt!” _Beside and behind him, the Westermen stopped short too, apprehensive, waiting, while the shining host barreling out of the east pressed on. Whipping off his helm, he shoved it under his shoulder and shook out his sweaty hair, and drew the golden trumpet at his hip.

“Serrett,” he said, addressing his squire at his right. “My banner.”

Under the morning star, Lancel faced rising sun. He put the trumpet to his lips and blew, and the white flag of surrender unfurled behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I hope I didn't make Kevan seem too stupid or Tyrion too OOC. I will be the first to admit that I am not a Tyrion expert. Also, Lester is back, from chapter 11. He's got his own AWOIAF page. Who remembers him? :P
> 
> Serrett is completely made up. Lancel is what, 16-17? So Serrett must be 12 or something. Oof. What a stressful day for everyone.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been supporting this story. See you all on October 15/16 for an 8.8K whopper of a chapter.


	49. Domeric XXV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domeric reunites with Sansa, observes her parley with the Lannisters, and encounters an unexpected acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter includes sexual content. It falls near the middle and is pretty easy to see coming. If you do not want to read such content for any reason, once there are hints of what will happen CTRL+F to the *** (three asterisk perspective break).
> 
> Also warning: Said content includes a description which is GRRM meme tier cringe. I assure you it was intentional and I apologize if its inclusion for the lulz and 'style-matching' detracts from the writing. I couldn't bear to cut it out.

Domeric flipped up his visor and welcomed the crisp dawn on his brow. Salt sweat of their night ride poured down his face and pooled in his mouth, and it tasted like victory on his tongue. _Hot_, he thought, for the newborn sun on his back singed his kit like coals. Though they’d slowed to a trot now to meet their friends come down from the mountains, his heart kept up its galloping pace. The only way to defeat the urge to fidget in the saddle as they trampled down the dewy grass was to regard it as a foe to crush beneath his feet.

Across the field a knight in gilded plate and a red greatcloak dismounted, gold and glorious as the brightening day. Behind him, his squire kept the white flag flying high. When the hosts met the golden knight led his horse to where men who must have been Ser Walton and Ser Roland and Septon Vortimer sat mounted, the twin towers and broken wheel and Seven-Pointed Star flapping overhead.

_Cheated again._ _Another surrender, just like Maidenpool._

The golden knight returned the trumpet to his hip, removed two swords from his belt, sheaths and all, and lay them on the ground. Turning around and beckoning to the army arrayed at his back, he waited for knights in Crakehall, Brax, Banefort, and Prester colors to step forward. With a movement of his hand he bade them lay down their arms as well.

“I am Lancel Lannister, and I speak in the name of Lord Tyrion, my liege.” Lancel Lannister spoke with the strain and purpose of one who’d never needed to make his voice carry. “House Lannister, who in ancient days laid the cornerstones of the Sunset Sept, disavows the Iron Throne that the Valyrian demons forced upon our land and folk. We are the men of the West, and we are men of faith. We will not cross swords with our brothers who live by the Seven-Pointed Star.” He paused, glancing up at the sky. “We ask for clemency for Tommen, who is just a boy. It was his mother who crowned him king.”

When his words were done, Lancel Lannister knelt, and then his knights knelt too. If any bristled at the gesture, Domeric could not tell. But it was just as well, for how sweet it was to watch their supplication. _Lannister knights who made Northerners bleed. _

_Sansa, do you see this? _He wondered if she could - if she’d passed out of the High Road, or if she’d watched the battle from the cliffs on high. _They caged you and they hurt you and now they kiss the ground_.

Domeric could not help but smile. It was hard to hate war when you were winning. He wondered if this was how it had felt to ride with the Young Wolf – to roll like an avalanche from one triumph to the next. _Perhaps I would have loved him too, _he thought. _Perhaps I would have loved the field and raged to bend the knee. _

A part of himself saw reason. _Robb Stark’s prizes were empty, _it said. _Robb Stark struck the Lannisters, and the Lannisters struck your wife. Robb Stark’s gains lasted but a day, but this will live a thousand years. _What was more_, _these men were not his own. _Victory belongs to the new gods, not the old. _The Valemen were not Northmen. _They prevailed today, but what if they had lost? To waste another’s men is one thing, but to waste your own… _

_Shut up, _he told the voice. He wanted to enjoy himself. 

“Rise, sers, and be reconciled, to the Faith and to your fellows.” Septon Vortimer’s voice – unsettling as always – rang out from the front as he urged his horse forward and dismounted. Domeric bit his lip. _Don’t let him spoil it, _he told himself. _Look at him. Don’t listen._

Vortimer’s kit was shining silver steel filigreed with rainbow enamel, all of heaven constellating his arms and legs. Studded with tiny opals, the Seven-Pointed Star gleamed from his breast. On his left arm he bore a shield blazoned with the Faith’s device, and on his hip hung a seven-pointed morningstar that dealt blows to the soul but not the body.

The septon took off his helmet and reached Ser Lancel in a step. Before he rose, Ser Lancel grabbed Septon Vortimer’s hands, and they exchanged words so quiet that even over the eerie hush the crowd could not hear. Then Ser Lancel bowed his head, and Septon Vortimer nodded, tracing a figure on his brow before helping Ser Lancel to his feet. The rest of the Westermen followed.

“Who holds command here?” It was the Brax knight who spoke, tipping the visor of his horned helm.

“I do.” That was Ser Morton.

The Brax knight tapped Ser Lancel on the shoulder and cleared his throat. “We would – ” Ser Lancel started. “We would discuss terms. _Plans_. For the – the extermination of the cult of the Red God and the pacification of the Riverlands.” The words sounded practiced, memorized. “As much we can, before winter comes. On our return to the West.” Ser Lancel’s gaze faltered before settling on Septon Vortimer when he spoke again. “My cousin Tyrion rides this way with the rest of our men. If we could make camp here and await his coming, your holiness, my lords, sers. He would – we have heard the Queen in the North rides in your company. He would parley with her.”

At that Domeric frowned, but he brushed off his discontent. _She can refuse him if she wishes. _Ser Morton sent a team of riders to his mother and the train and spread the word that it was safe to come down. The sun crept across the sky as tents of many colors sprang up from the ground. The first was a grand pavilion which had seven sides when closed, but three had been left pinned up to the central pole, for the first order of business was to pray for the fallen.

It was only a truncated rite, for no septas had ventured to the battlefield. Nonetheless, the Waynwood knights had produced seven trunks to serve as altars, and from within them, seven idols of the seven gods. From the chandelier Septon Vortimer strung up his morningstar to sparkle in the sun.

By birth an Arryn of Gulltown, Vortimer had the bearing of a noble and a poet’s elocution. Trained in arms and schooled in history before he’d left for the septry, Lord Horton had always said that one day he’d wear a crystal crown and oil the brows of kings. _Perhaps I could have liked him if he’d gone on to something else. But he calls my people heathens and the life I love he hates._

The septon’s voice boomed to reach every soul packed together in the open air. Vortimer spoke of providence, of each man’s role in history and the gods’ divine plan. He spoke of fate and fortune and free will, of how each day could be your last, of how each moment presented a choice – stay or stray or turn around, dare again or be daunted if you stumble. “The Way is a constant struggle,” he said. “A never-ending spiritual war. Against _both_ the baser urges and the demons on the road.” 

And then he touched upon forgiveness, for oneself and for one’s brother when he fell. “Take his hand and help him rise again.” Many men were moved to tears when he bid Lancel Lannister and Harry Hardyng come to the Maiden’s altar and embrace as brothers would**. **

They were silver and gold and perfect, bright-haired and beautiful. Domeric closed his eyes. _His words will live forever. This day will live forever. History was made this morning. I look not upon a mortal man, but a giant. _

When the rite was over and the assembly dispersed he was glad. The Valemen and the Westermen did not mingle in their work, but agreed to come together when it all was done. With a quickness too deliberate to be called true haste he saw to Rhaegar and his things and joined Jon and Lord Horton in the meeting with the other Vale host. Out of courtesy, the Lord of Karhold had been invited too.

“How fared you with Tarly?” Ser Walton asked. “It seems you brought your whole number here.”

“We found his rearguard in the woods,” said Lord Horton. “By the time the rest of us caught up to it, his van had taken Saltpans. After seven days of siege he yielded. It seems he had a bird from Highgarden. The Voice of Oldtown has his grandson’s ear. The Reachmen march for home.”

Ser Morton nodded, his long face tugging with a smile. “Oldtown. How lucky we are that the High Tower burns bright to light the way.” 

The sun had begun its descent when Tyrion Lannister and his foot came marching up from the Crossroads in the west, and it was nearly dusk when the Vale ladies and the greater share of the supply train arrived from the eastern gloom, with all the pomp of a harvest parade. The entire camp received them with cheers, and beside him, Harry hooted.

At the fore sat Lady Waynwood and one of her daughters or granddaughters, waving from a carriage piled high with wheat, each cradling a sheaf in their arms like a baby. _Meant to bring to mind the Mother, no doubt. _After the wheat came the barley, and after that, Cassandra Redfort with corn as bright as her hair, and Ryella Frey, babe in arms, and the girl child Cynthea with the Vale’s sweet and famous pumpkins in tow.

Last of all was his sweet wife. His Sansa. Atop her snow-white palfrey she carried no crops at all. Preceded by an honor guard of Waynwood knights, she wore a Stark grey cloak of thick wool lined with vair and a wild white pelt around her shoulders. Her gown was thick wool too, but wool of white, with messy red dye at the hems of her wide sleeves and flowing skirts that looked so much like bloodstains. Embroidered on her skirt was a pack of snarling silver direwolves, blood dripping down their fangs in tiny rubies. They stood under a great heart tree, its five-fingered leaves and the weeping eyes and hard mouth on its judging face so red like blood. She must have made it to distance her cause from the new gods’ banner, to appear a true Northern queen. Her hair was braided up and away from her face in a style he’d seen his mother wear, and atop her head was a delicate bronze circlet staked through with nine iron spikes. But the crown was not what caught his eye. Harnessed over her bodice she wore a bronze breastplate, the runes of the First Men carved around the crowned direwolf of Stark, and at her wrists, matching vambraces.

_How darling, _Domeric thought. _She dresses as a warrior. _The breastplate cinched her waist in so tight he wasn’t sure she could breathe. She could never fight in it, nor at all if he had his druthers. But she could wear that silly bronze breastplate whenever she wished.

When she approached the pavilion erected just for her, Sansa spied him, smiled, and gave a special wave.

His loins twitched.

“That’s _her_?” Harry asked from his right. “Her grace?”

“Aye.” The grin that seized him was inevitable. But his grin died when her journey ended not inside her pavilion, but before the grander one set up for the Faith.

_They mean to hold this parley in the open air. _He misliked that. _They ought have given her time. _It would have been better had she been allowed an hour to prepare before facing the Imp. He cursed himself for not speaking sooner, but how could he have known? A private meeting was the norm. _And I should have brought her Harry first. _Then the Imp arrived, with Ser Lancel and his knights behind him, and it was too late.

A tap on the shoulder and a haughty voice. “Ser,” Lady Waynwood said, the ladies and Harry Hardyng at her shoulder. “My lord. If you would both follow me. We will attend her grace at court.”

The Faith’s pavilion had been closed now that the rite was done. Two chairs had been set up on either side of the entrance, each upon a dais, angled inward rather than at face. “You two first,” she hissed into his ear. The Lord of Karhold bristled at the ordered but obeyed nonetheless, and they fell into a line. In their kits of sullied steel they were out of place among such pretty birds.

Once Sansa was seated, the Imp rose_._ “Lady Sansa,” he started. “Or should I say, your grace. How sweet it is to see you once again. Pardon me, but you gave us all quite the scare.” Domeric flinched when the Imp moved to take her hands, and bit his tongue when Sansa allowed it. “When we had word of your appearance here, we did not know what to think… I had cause to doubt. You know the way of things. This world is full of rumormongers. But to behold the truth at last… you simply must tell me how.”

If Sansa smiled or scowled, he could not see, but her voice was as gentle as the snowfall, and as chilly. “A girl must have her secrets, Lord Tyrion,” she said. “Or should I say _your grace?_”

The Imp released her hands, his mismatched eyes gleaming with a hungry mirth that Domeric did not like. “Not yet, my dear.” _This dwarf is far too familiar._ The urge to stride across the grass and smash the Imp’s misshapen skull beneath his boot pulsed throughout his veins, and he fought to kill it and keep still. Not for the first time he wished he could stand beside his lady as her lord. _Even this creature would not dare ogle then. _But the dwarf continued. “A king must have a crown. I must return home and seek what lies beneath the Rock.” Waddling back to his own seat, the Imp kept talking. “I must confess, your grace. I asked you here to speak, but I have naught to ask of you. I come only bearing gifts, and the hope of peace.”

A beat passed. “From here we march into the sunset, back to the hills we love. On the way we will pass Riverrun. Your kinsman the Blackfish holds it now, and my cousin Ser Daven keeps it under siege. My uncle Ser Emmon and his nephew Black Walder hold _your_ uncle, Lord Edmure Tully. They are at Riverrun as well. Before I leave this place, I will instruct them to free Lord Tully and his wife the Lady Roslin and set their castle free.”

Sansa nodded, silent, as if these tidings were too good to be true. He understood. At times, some part of him cowered in the night, waiting for the wheel of fortune to roll him once again into the mire. But that part was not his reason. The Tyrell alliance was all but broken. The Imp had made the only choice.

“What is more. A ship from Lannisport is set to sail to Barrowton with a sum of gold and silver coin. It was meant for… another, but by my hand I name it yours. And more. I am sure that these fine knights will see it safe in your possession.” The Imp paused and turned. “Ser Flement. My letter, if you please.” Flement Brax produced a crimson-sealed scroll bound with a golden ribbon. “Open it, my lady. It bears mine own signature and those of seven witnesses. I have a debt to you, my lady, and it is yet unpaid. And a Lannister always pays his debts.” 

Sansa raised a hand, and Lady Waynwood stepped forward. _“Ser Jonnel,” _she hissed, and tapped him on the arm. He nodded and approached the high seat as well. Sansa unsealed the scroll. “All very straightforward. No deceptions,” Lady Waynwood said, and Domeric nodded as he read, because Lady Waynwood was right.

But he balked when he saw the sum.

“Lord Tyrion.” Sansa spoke with the passion of a stone. “You have ever been kind to me. Peace I had expected, but not such generosity. I _must_ thank you, but you _must _tell – what brought about this change of heart?”

The Imp looked utterly pleased with himself. “You were not there to hear it, but this morning His Holiness spoke of forgiveness and the way forward.” He beat his breast seven times. “The gods set light in mine eyes. At these very Crossroads all this strife began, and here they must end. Your mother took me hostage, yes, but her sister set me free. I was put to trial and I won. The gods proclaimed my innocence.” Folding his hands together like a pious man, the Imp raised his eyes to heaven. “As the Mother is forgiving, so _House Lannister _ought have been forgiving. Instead we met slight with slight, and on it went, and here we are.” _What a mummer’s farce,_ Domeric thought. Tyrion Lannister’s irreverence was near the stuff of songs. “This war is done. I wish there to be peace between our houses. Let us seal this pact with a kiss.”

Domeric bit his tongue. _This creature has no right to touch her._ But Sansa bent to kiss the Imp’s scarred cheek and consented to his hands upon her face. _A grace and a gargoyle. _Though the sight was comical it could not wash out his distaste. If Sansa felt the same she did not show it. _A grace, _he thought, as Sansa rose and pulled away and he felt the tension die. _Graceful, gracious. All that a queen should be. _He hoped the North would come to love her.

“Our houses are reconciled, my lady. Let this meeting be adjourned.” The Imp turned to leave, but stopped at an interruption.

“Your grace – a moment, your grace… I have a gift for you as well.” Lancel Lannister had spoken, shifting from one foot to the other, wringing his hands. The Imp arched his heavy brow. This new gift was unplanned.

“Ser Lancel. Of course.” Sansa had resumed her seat. She beckoned with her fingers and extended her hand for a kiss. “My heart is warmed to see you hale.”

Crossing the distance, Ser Lancel fell to his knees and reverently pressed his lips to Sansa’s ring before looking up. “Thank you, your grace. But it might not have been so. You saved my life, your grace. Without you I would be dead.”

“I only did what was right, ser,” Sansa said. “What anyone would have done.”

But Ser Lancel shook his head. “That is – that is not – ” For a moment he looked down. “I prayed for you. You gave me hope.” _I mislike this. _Ser Lancel was gaunt, but he was handsome enough. The plain adoration on his countenance was worse than the Imp’s vulgar stares. But then Ser Lancel cleared his throat, and his face grew stern with purpose. He unbuckled first one sword from his belt, and then another, still in their sheaths, before stacking them atop one another on his palms.

“This belongs to you,” Ser Lancel started. “My Uncle Tywin, he… he took it, he changed it… he wanted it for ours, but it’s not. It belonged to your father once. It belonged to House Stark.” After too long a silence, Ser Lancel spoke again. “Your grace – I beg you – take them and draw. You must see…”

“Ser Jonnel,” Sansa called, softer than Domeric had heard her speak that day. “If you would aid me.”

“Of course, your grace.” Domeric stepped forward and took the topmost hilt in hand. As soon as he grasped it he knew what it was. As a squire he’d paid Ser Lyn a stag to let him clean Lady Forlorn so Mychel could have an evening to himself. _Valyrian steel. _

“Ice,” Sansa said, when he unsheathed the sword at last. “It’s _red_…”

_It’s mine. _It was all he could do not to test the balance then and there. _One of two. _In House Bolton had never had Valyrian steel blade, not once in its history. _Our second son will have this. _The hilt would have to go, but the blade was perfect down to the colors. _And I’ll get to name it…_

“Yes, your grace. They were Ice, once,” Ser Lancel said. “But they have been made anew.” Then he went on about the Seven and how they sustained him when hope failed. “_Mother’s Mercy_,” he said. “That night… your grace, your song – it moved me so.” 

Domeric bit the inside of his cheek. _It is not your place to name those swords_. But Sansa masked any consternation she might have felt with courtesy and charm.

“Thank you, ser, for what you have given me. I will not forget this.” She kissed the beaming knight on the brow.

It was all relief when the talks were done and Sansa bid the Lannisters goodbye. Then many handbells rang to announce the seventh hour and the Luminary, the Anya Waynwood and Sansa’s ladies dispersed, to join the twenty thousand souls who knelt in concert. He would have liked to greet Cassandra, to smile upon her after so long, but Lord Horton had already drawn her to his side. Domeric held his breath to see it, to hear it. The haunting harmony of the bells, the hushed voices chanting in unison – he imagined that death was something like that, death before life again, together in the trees. _I shall never see anything quite like this again. Not until I breathe my last._

“We will not join them, my lords,” Sansa said, soft and mild. “Come and join me at my table.” She glanced his way and he knew to offer his arm.

Through layers of wool and steel and bronze, her touch singed his skin, all the hairs on his arm jumping to attention.

His loins twitched.

They passed through the crowd in total silence, three ghosts unseen in the land of the living. The man guarding the entrance to Sansa’s pavilion nodded and pulled the canvas aside with one hand, praying on his fingers with the other. During the parley attendants had set out a spread of cheeses hard and soft and sweet, slices of dried fruits and vegetables, and every cured meat you could find in Gulltown – sausages of lamb and boar and goat. And there were bowls and bowls of nuts, salted and spiced and herbed. Domeric licked his lips. _Far better than acorns. _A basket of day-old bread and a crystal decanter of sweet pink wine from Ironoaks lay out to complete the supper.

“Here, your grace.” Straight away he removed the two treasures from his swordbelt to stow in one of Sansa’s trunks. When that was safely done, he noticed the woodharp he’d been traveling with leaning against her dining table. _Lord Horton must have sent it from my things._ Domeric would have to thank him.

“Lord Karstark. I have heard much of you.” Sansa smiled and extended her hand. “It is good to make your acquaintance at last, my lord.”

It was a moment before Harry dropped to a knee. “Your grace,” he said, and all his teeth peeked out from the brambles of his beard. After a hasty kiss of courtesy he rose and looked at Domeric, and then to the food.

Domeric knit his brows together. _This was not what we spoke on. _

“Aye, I cannot forget.” Harry barked out that harsh laugh of his. “Your grace. The might of the Karhold is yours.” He knelt again, and took Sansa’s hands. Together they seemed gnarled oak against a willow wand. “I, Harrion Karstark, on behalf of me and mine, do swear…”

When the vows were done and Harry was in his seat, Domeric blinked, for it fell to him to serve. _No ladies, no maids. _He was the heir to the Dreadfort, the lord of nothing. He poured the wine and doled out three portions without complaint.

“Tell me, my lord, of your travels. It was said you sailed to Maidenpool?”

_Maidenpool. _He’d had his tale prepared. Florian and Jonquil and the pretty pink palace full of pretty pink fish.

“And when we crossed the river, I tracked Tarly through the woods. Found him too, I did. Ah, and on the way we picked up a Winterfell man. Harwin was his name – ”

“Harwin?” she said, and her eyes lit up. “You found Harwin?”

“Aye, your grace. He rode with the outlaw band. He has quite the tale to tell.”

“Is he here? Tonight?”

“Aye, in camp. You’ll see him on the morrow.” Domeric stared. _Harry will be your final audience._ Sansa blinked, and the corners of her mouth twitched just so. She picked up just one dried cherry and nibbled, her tongue darting out like a bud in spring. Then he watched her dainty fingers twirl the stem of her wine cup once, twice, and then tip it up to her lips. The wine left them shiny, dewy, parted. The sweetness had her smiling. Just before she turned her attention to Harry, she glanced at him again and licked the drops away.

Domeric clenched his jaw. Beneath the table he spread his knees apart as wide as they would go, and damned all the steel and leather and wool weighing him down to every hell there was.

_Breathe and count to ten._

It did not get easier. Not when he counted out the motions of his jaw as he chewed every bite of food to mush. Not even when he sliced his sausage to ribbons and picked at them strand by strand. The fork and knife grew molten in his hands, and the eager feeling did not abate when he gripped them tight enough to warp. _Don’t fight it, _he told himself. _Just a while longer._

Instead he drummed his fingers on the table and tapped his boot upon the ground. To keep his face was second nature. He listened while Harry recounted once again his captivity with Tarly and told a fond story off his sister Alys back up North. Harry boomed and shook his fork and slammed his wine cup on the table, and all the while Sansa twittered and chimed, keeping up the quick and cheerful banter.

_Pretty,_ Domeric thought. _So very, very pretty. _His eyes traced the line of her neck down to the dizzying dips of her bronze breastplate. _Read the runes, _the higher part of him ordered, but the lower part left it ignored.

A lull arose in the conversation, and it seemed it was time for him to speak. “Aye,” he said, because it seemed the safest answer.

Harry’s beard shook as he roared with laughter, and Sansa giggled even as his spittle landed everywhere. “_Aye, _Bolton? You’ll name both of those swords _Aye? _Har! Ser Leech! You’ve a better way with words than that!” Harry caught his breath and readied himself for polite conversation. “Your grace. What a delight this evening has been. I fear I must bid you good night and wish you an undisturbed retirement.”

Sansa rose so Harry could. “A good night to you, too, my lord,” she said, and then she saw him out.

With Harry gone a great weight fell from his shoulders. Domeric rose immediately._ Finally. Finally, finally._ Eyeing the flap of canvas that separated the receiving area of the pavilion from Sansa’s sleeping place, he lead them through, opened his arms and drew her close. “Oh, my lady,” he sighed. She ran a finger along his cheek and through his tangled whiskers. “My love and my wife. How I missed you.” He kissed her on the brow just beneath her iron crown and she wound her arms around his neck.

“My love and my lord,” she said. “I missed you sore.”

The brush of her hands on his face was enough. His own were lost in unending folds of heavy, scratchy wool. It did not matter. The too-many layers of cloth and metal between them did not matter. She was his wife and he needed her, and it had been far too long. So he kissed her.

“_Oh,_” she gasped, and then she gave a long exhale. He’d made quick work of her breastplate. Its harnesses were easier than his own. It clattered to the ground. “Don’t – Lord Royce had that made for me – ”

“Aye, he made you _armor_. It will survive. See?” Off came the plain steel kit, piece by piece by piece, all discarded on the floor. _Not knightly_, said the better part of him, but that voice could be ignored. He watched Sansa’s eyes darken as he undressed, and he smirked when she flushed pink all the way to the shells of her ears. With a finger she’d covered her mouth, but knew she’d been biting her lip.

He was down to his linen and hose when he’d had enough and joined her again. “I missed you,” he repeated, sliding his fingers into her hair. He kissed her cheekbone near her eye and was pleased to find she still smelled the same. “I have need of you.” At her mouth again he groaned, running his hands up and down her sides, her back. _Bugger this gown. _There were three sets of ties. _Too fucking long. _The girdle at her waist matched the crown on her head. Its iron spikes were dull but they would have to do. His knife was somewhere on the floor.

“The stays. You cut them,” she said lamely. She held up a hand and showed him the pads of her fingers, dark with grey grime. “You are in need of a bath, ser.”

Hips cocked up, head tilted – she was provoking him.

“I can wait for a bath.”

Turning her back to him, she laughed and shrugged her shoulders, and the heavy gown dropped away. He wrapped his arms around her and took her chin in his hand. “My lovely,” he said, walking her forward to her fur-draped pallet. The time for words was done.

The press of her arse against his groin set his blood on fire. Weeks of riding had left it _better_ than he’d remembered – higher, firmer, rounder. Too impatient to take a good long look, he slid a hand down the ridges of those ribs that nipped in so sweetly, that he knew so well. He fisted his hands into her woolen shift and yanked. Up it went. Just out of the way. Just like her smallclothes. Down went his hose too. The cold hit him for just a moment before he was home again.

She was so tight he could have wept, and as hot and as damp as the steam vents that heated the Dreadfort from below. _Gods,_ he thought. With one hand he braced them over the pallet and with the other he squeezed her face. He blanked, chasing his need, and rut into her like a wild animal. With a jerk of his hips, his peak ripped through him with a roar. He collapsed onto her and resumed the mind of a man.

“Quick,” Sansa said with a tut. Their noses were so close he had to squint to make out her expression. When he saw her lips were pursed in clear frustration, he laughed.

“Oh?” Domeric did not wait for her response. Goodbye went her shift and his remaining clothes, and finally he beheld her bare.

_Gods. _The march had been more than kind to her. Her thighs had bulked up with lean and meaty flesh, and her hips flared out with an even more delightful roundness. “Lovely,” he repeated.

“You smell foul,” she told him. Sometimes she was silly like that, teasing him. Saying one thing and doing another. She pressed her nose to the pit of his arm and sniffed him like a dog would. He planted a line of kisses from the crown of her head to the tip of her toes and back up again to his favorite place in the world - her delicious pink clam, pretty and perfect. He ought to write a song about it. An ode to Sansa’s cunny with a verse for every hour of the day. With his finger he tucked shining pearls of hot white jism back inside their cozy bed. Then he pressed his nose into her glorious red hair, feasting until she sang.

Her heels were digging into his back when he came back up, and her peak rang in his ears, beading honey in his whiskers. He savored the sounds and the smell, but it was the sight of her proud-tipped teats, the wonder in her hazy smile, had him bobbing up again with a hardness so profound it reached his soul. He arched a brow and focus returned to her eyes. She nodded and he lay her down to love her slow, right and proper, and make them whole.

“Mine,” he said.

“Yours,” Sansa answered, and she clutched him to herself. From her chest to her shoulders to the lines on her hands, every point where her skin met his proclaimed acceptance. _You’re here, I know you, I love you, _she told him, though she did not use her voice.

_I love you, _he answered.

Cupping his cheek, she pressed their foreheads together, and her blue eyes blazed with clear intent. “My lord,” she breathed. “Our son. Give me our son.” He nodded. She kissed his mouth and clamped around him, and he erupted like the thunder before rain. For a moment his sight flashed white like lightning in the mountains and then the world went dark.

***

When light returned, they were still one, and silky red hair pooled over his chest. Twirling his fingers through it idly, little by little, sounds returned.

“You did not hear me,” Sansa said, her voice thrumming in his bones. She was still wearing her pretty bronze crown. He blinked and shifted her so that her chin no longer poked him.

“Didn’t I?”

“No, ser.” Her laughter tinkled like a bell, and her skin seemed to glow like one of the heralds of the Seven that decorated the Redfort’s ceilings.

“Pray repeat yourself for your poor husband then.”

She placed her palms on either side of him and pressed herself upward, breasts swaying entrancingly. _Pretty, _he thought. _So pretty_. When she spoke, she smiled, eyes shining, and he smiled back. “Lord Karstark. He is your friend. You must have words with him. I mislike the way he speaks to me.” She wrinkled her nose.

At that Domeric frowned. “Harry? What on earth could he have said?” He struggled to recall what might have come to pass at supper. The first share of his anger turned inward. _I should have seen it. I should have heard it. Whatever it was. _An insult against one’s wife was an insult against oneself. But that failed the test of reason. Harry was not one for that sort of slight.

He tensed, blood up again. Sansa shifted against him, her hand cool against his face. She shook her head.

“It is not _what_ he said, it is _how_ he said it. His tone is of a kind with – ” and here she paused – “with Robb’s whenever he used to speak with Arya.” Then her brow furrowed. “I am not a _child_. I am not his little sister. I am his queen.”

The hitch in her voice pained him. The downward tug of her lips too. He could deny her nothing. “Of course, your grace,” he said. “I will speak with him. You are the Queen in the North.”

“Thank you.” She smiled when he kissed her on the cheek. “The Vale is as beautiful as you told it.” When she turned to let him nod, her hair caught in his teeth. He grabbed her hips to pull her off and adjusted her downward. “The High Road in the morning. It’s grand…”

“The mountain clans did not trouble you?”

“Not _me._” Sansa’s laugh faded into a sigh, her eyes sad between two blinks. “You said you would show me. But…”

_But. _Raising a finger he traced the curve of her brow down the bridge of her nose to the tip. “But naught. Aye, I’ll show you. One day when spring is here again. We’ll see our son off to squire and visit every keep. Your kingly cousin will host us.”

Rolling a shoulder and stretching his arm, it struck him then just how dirty he was. He spied his armor lying on the rug haphazard in a pile and clenched his jaw. It wouldn’t do. He’d need to clean it up. A pinch on the rump and she was off. “A bath, I think,” he said, pulling on his breeches and a cloak and tending his kit with proper care. “Shall I call for one?”

“Yes,” she scoffed. “Did you last wash at Runestone?”

“The southern bank of the Trident.” He pushed aside the tent flap separating Sansa’s sleeping quarters from the rest of the pavilion and hailed the Waynwood guard. “Fetch one of her grace’s ladies,” he ordered. “Lady Cassandra or Lady Cynthea. The queen would have a bath drawn.” With slit-narrow eyes and a curt nod the Waynwood man assented.

Leaning on the leg of Sansa’s dining table was his woodharp. Domeric picked it up and returned inside, moving to turn the coals in the brazier and stoke the fire back to life. “Don’t touch it,” Sansa said. _This woman never gets cold. _ “Not yet. The chill pleases me.”

He tugged at the furs trapped beneath her. “I must have this then.” Unclasping his cloak, he swung the pelt over his shoulders. _A fine make. _Once it had been a mighty shadowcat, and now its leather was supple to perfection. It even had a hook-and-eye closure should the sleeper choose to wear it. Sitting on the pallet, he tested the woodharp’s tuning while Sansa lay prone, lounging beside him. After a few tweaks he plucked a perfect scale, not a string too tight or too loose. _Start with the melody, then add the meter, and save the words for last._

“You are happy,” Sansa said, a hand on his thigh, her fingers drumming in time to the music.

“Aye.” _There. _The perfect air. _One, two, three, four. _Upbeat and jolly with a rousing bridge.

“I am glad.” Not just drumming fingers, now – she was tapping with her whole hand quite helpfully. “I missed you.”

“Aye, I missed you too.” She began to hum along so sweetly. He closed his eyes to focus on the sound. He couldn’t write the words, not now. _I’ll have to remember this._ Better if he kept his pen close at hand to take up when she slept. _An ode to Sansa’s cunny…_

“Your grace,” the Waynwood guard called. “Lady Ryella to see you.”

“Our bath.” Domeric stood, slipping out of the pelt and into his shirt and boots, leaving Sansa to her comfort. “I will receive her.”

Even in the dark shadows moved outside the tent. Four figures, perhaps five. _How large a tub could she have brought? _Muddled whispers, that was all he heard, no splashes of water, not Cassandra’s cheerful laugh. _The guard said Lady Ryella. _That was a shame, but no matter. He’d see Cassandra again on the morrow.

“My lady.” The dew-damp canvas was cold against his fingers, and his breath fogged before his face. “Hello. Her grace is resting – ”

_“You – ”_ A woman’s voice cut the night with the timbre of a whisper and the tone of a shriek. “Oh, _Mother, _mercy, mercy_… _Oh – _gods be good – _it’s _you…_”

The lady was hooded; he could not see her face. She wore a dull cloak of brown, or green, or grey – he could not tell in the blue gloom, even with the torchlight. She reached up a hand to touch his cheek before sinking to her knees, clutching at his boots.

“_Oh – _how I prayed… _thank the gods. _My children…”

“Miya…” Another lady came forward and crouched beside the weeping woman, slinging her arm around her back, helping her up. “There now.”

Domeric’s heart leapt into his throat, and when forced it back down with a swallow, he choked. _A ghost stands before me._ He had to cough once, twice, but when he could breathe again, his voice failed. Had he not clamped his jaw shut it would have fallen open. The shade of Catelyn Tully turned away from him to comfort her companion while Domeric stood there dumb and dirty. _They killed her. They killed her. She can’t…_

“Ser – I mean, _Ser Jonnel_, I beg your pardon.” Another woman’s voice. He turned his head and had to look down to see the speaker. This one had caramel-colored hair and a blue cloak trimmed with white feathers; by her side stood a tall knight with whom he’d been acquainted moons and moons ago.

“Lady Ryella,” he said. “Ser Arwood.” His voice came out wooden and lame, and he blinked before settling his gaze on the space above Lady Ryella’s head. “Her grace has retired for the evening.” _Breathe and count to ten. _“She is expecting her bath.”

“Lady Darry requests an audience,” pressed Ser Arwood, squeezing his wife’s arm. “It is of the _utmost_ importance.”

He was not ready for an audience. “It can wait for the morning.”

“I ask you, Ser Jonnel, please – they have just made the crossing – they have ridden all day…” Lady Ryella cut in. “I am sure her grace would – ”

“Lady Ryella. Good evening. This is your husband, I trust?” Sansa had walked silently to stand at his shoulder. Better dressed than he was, she kept her back straight, her hair neat, her voice firm. Under her stark white pelt, her grey dressing gown had near as much construction as any court dress.

“Yes, your grace. Ser Arwood of Houses Frey and Hawick. My husband.” Ser Arwood genuflected, and the ladies curtsied. “I bring you Lady Mariya Frey of House Darry and Lady Wynafrei Frey of House Whent, my aunts by marriage. They seek an audience with you, if you would allow it.” _Whent_, he thought, while Sansa bid them rise. _Oh._

“Of course,” Sansa said, even, inviting. “Be welcome at my table, my ladies, ser.” By rote Domeric offered her his arm while the guard held the tent open. At Sansa’s appearance Lady Mariya had produced a handkerchief and collected herself, her bloodshot eyes the only sign of her fresh tears.

“How may I be of service to you, my ladies?” The decanter of wine from supper lay ready. Lady Ryella took it up to pour while Domeric pulled out Sansa’s seat and took his place behind her, at her right. At the other end of the table, Ser Arwood did the same for Lady Darry and Lady Whent.

A glance passed between the two, and Lady Whent touched Lady Darry’s arm, her lips moving. Lady Darry nodded, rose, and strode too close for Domeric’s liking.

“Your grace,” she started, falling to her knees once again. This time she did not cry. “I hold Darry by right of blood and birth, and I offer up my hearth and harvest to my queen, the Queen of the North and of the Trident.” A pall fell over Lady Darry’s face. She blinked with the eyes of a liar before clutching at Sansa’s hand to say the words. After a swallow, earnest desperation bested the courtly mummer’s mask.

“Now – I – your leal subject – I come before you to beg – ” Her voice quivered again, and she swallowed again, and from below her brown eyes found Domeric’s face and on it their resolve. The words came quick. “I am the mother of Walda Frey, the wife of Roose Bolton, and of Walder Frey, squire to Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of the Dreadfort. Your grace, they had no part – I had no part – I fought with all I had but Lord Walder’s word was law – ”

“I hear you, my lady,” Sansa said mildly. “In my name, no harm shall be done to ladies or to little boys. Their lives will be spared.”

_A squire is not a little boy, _Domeric thought, acid rising against his tongue. Ramsay hadn’t crossed his mind in moons.

“Oh – your grace – I thank you – ”

“Thank me not for what I would have done myself.”

Lady Darry nodded stiffly and kissed Sansa’s hands. When she rose to her feet it was to Domeric she looked. “You,” she whispered. “I know your face. I know your eyes.” She pursed her lips. “Oh, can it be? Your name cannot be Jonnel…”

There was no more point. “Well met, my lady. I know your face as well. You asked I call you grandmother.” _Gentle words, she is a suffering woman._

“You are?”

“I am Domeric Bolton, my lady.”

“_Oh,” _she said, letting out a rattling sigh. She beat her breast seven times before making the sign of the star. “Thank the gods. Seven bless you, child…” Her voice trailed off and she addressed Sansa again. “Your grace, I cannot tell you how much you have consoled me this night. With the heir to the Dreadfort as your hostage you cannot help but – ”

“Domeric Bolton is not my hostage,” Sansa cut in. “He is my husband. My Lord Protector.” She drew up to her full height and touched her arm to his. He bit the inside of his cheek as Lady Darry fell agape.

“But – ” she started. “But – ” she said again. Then she pursed her lips and looked between them as she searched for words, the courtly mask returning. Her face drained of color. “And yet you would make war?”

“What was done at the Twins must needs be answered.” Domeric eyed Lady Mariya coolly. “My father will be removed. Ser Walton will set the rest of your house to rights. After that…her grace’s highest aim is peace before winter.”

Sansa nodded. “No harm will come to them, my lady.”

Lady Mariya’s eyes unsettled him, shiny and brown. Not once had she looked away from him while Sansa spoke. _She’s just a woman, _he told himself, but he could not stop the acute nakedness he felt without his knife or sword. _She can’t hurt me._ Now, she seized his hands in hers. _Cold and bony. _

Domeric gulped. _Breathe and count to ten_.

“Swear it to me. No harm will come to them. You will see to it. You will protect them. You will send my children back to me.”

“I swear it, my lady.” He could not refuse her. Not when her gaze had sent him back in time by fifteen years…

“On your honor as a knight.”

“On my honor as a knight, my lady.”

Lady Mariya let him go for just a moment, but only just, for once his hands were free she drew far too close. Wrinkled fingers pressed into his cheeks as she leaned up in her boots to kiss him on the brow. “Thank you.” _Cloves, _he thought. _Her perfume smells of cloves._ Her lips were dry, her skin paper-thin. Something else woke up in him then, another ghost, small and secret. A little coward of a shade, but with no small power of possession. Domeric found himself wrapping his arms around the lady too. Fragile – that’s how she felt. Thin like a bird. Light as a newborn colt. _I could break her, _he realized. _Mustn’t be too tight. _Despite the care he took he couldn’t shake the thought that it was she who kept him standing steady while the air around him trembled.

“Oh, child,” she said, and then she hugged him back. _Her eyes are brown, _he thought. _Her hair is brown._

“You’ll have them back, my lady,” he whispered. “Walda and Walder. I’ll see to it. I promise.”

Sansa coughed.

“Grandmother,” Domeric said, and he cleared his throat for good measure. Lady Mariya broke apart from him with a nod and a curtsey_._

“Ser,” she said, her nose wrinkling. “Your grace.” Scraping together all the dignity she could manage, she returned to her place at the end of the table and stood behind her chair.

“Your grace,” Lady Whent said, carrying on as if the past few moments had not happened. For that Domeric was grateful. In the light of the brazier he could see her properly. _Not Catelyn Tully. _Her hair was duller, her jaw squarer, her eyes green, not blue.

“My lady,” Sansa said. If she saw her own mother in Wynafrei Whent’s face she gave no outward sign. Her smile remained serene as ever, as effortless. “How may I be of service?” She sat again and scanned the room to give the rest of them leave to rest their feet.

“Harrenhal is yours, your grace,” Lady Whent said, after she knelt and said her vows. “What is left of it, at least.” Her gaze darted back and forth, curious and searching. “I thought that you were Danwell’s girl. Bronze Yohn’s pretender.” Lady Whent’s lips parted and shut like some wild thing that struggled for air. “Mine own niece Danelle…” She shook her head and gulped, and in the light she seemed to recede into the fire. “I had to see,” she said. “I heard and I hoped, but I had to see. There is no denying it. You are Cat’s daughter.” Taking Sansa’s hands in hers again, with a quivering mouth Lady Whent breathed in and out. “Oh, to look upon your face…”

“My mother always spoke your name with fondness,” Sansa said. Domeric frowned as she tensed. _The bat has claws. _Sharp long nails and white knuckles - Lady Whent was gripping too hard. _There will be red marks on Sansa’s skin_. “Be not upset, my lady – it is good that we have met at last – ”

Domeric raised a hand at the first hint of pain in Sansa’s voice, and when he did, Lady Whent let go.

“Oh no,” she said. “Oh _no_. It _isn’t _good at all. I failed you. I failed you _all. _My last kin in the world – ”

“You did nothing wrong, Wynnie,” said Lady Mariya. “You couldn’t have expected to – ”

“Oh, Miya, but I _did_,” Lady Wynafrei near on spat. “I _did_ and I could have and I should have. They called me _mad, _you know? They locked me in that tower. If only. If only I hadn’t _allowed _Danwell to shoo me away that night. If only I had been braver. If only I had torn out my hair and sliced my sheets to ribbons. Bit through the bars and climbed down from the window. If only I’d been a _witch_ for true, like the last Lady Lothston. I’m the last bat too, you know? The last Lady Whent. But Whent bats are not as great. Oh, if only I could have flown away to suck Old Walder dry and swallow him whole. Lame Lothar too, and the rest of them. Oh, _fie…”_

With every word her voice grew more high-pitched, more shrill. _They called her mad. _Domeric nearly choked when she brought her hands to the level of her breast and began to wring them together, for raw red scratches ringed her wrists, and her stare cut just like jade.

“Whent blood. My blood. My last kin in the world. Cat, Cat, _oh. _Your grace… Forgive me, your grace. I let them lock Edmure in a cage… I let them shut away your sister – ”

“My sister?” The whole while, Sansa had been patient. Unyielding. Her calm was almost as disturbing as Lady Wynafrei’s display. _This girl knows madness, _he had to remind himself. _This girl knew King Joffrey. _But at the mention of her sister, his wife’s peace broke. “What say you of my sister? The girl at the Twins was a pretender – ”

“_No!” _shouted Lady Wynafrei, now tugging at her hair. “No! We _all _knew it for true, your grace. Even I locked in my tower. The girl the Hound brought was no pretender. Your own mother and the Young Wolf made it plain. No. The girl I failed – the girl Roose Bolton took away is the true Arya Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On this earth there exists a class of people for whom the state of horniness constitutes an oppressive, distracting handicap which warps the better judgment. It is my opinion that the WOT5K-era Boltons would have fallen into this category. My headcanon is that at least one intentional end of Roose's leeching sessions is artificial impulse control, sexual impulses included. "As soon as I saw her I wanted her." How long do you think it took from fox hunting to the miller hanging from a tree? Maybe an hour? "I want her" to "she bears my bastard in her belly" in an hour. The miller's wife - Roose could have killed her like her husband, given the mill to someone who wouldn't break his laws, who wouldn't talk to Lord Rickard. Why not? My hypothesis is that Roose kept her around because he was horny. Then a wild Ramsay appears. Horny has consequences. 
> 
> Regarding Ramsay - I don't think much needs to be said about how he follows his deranged impulses even when they contravene what a sane person would call better judgment. 
> 
> A few months back I wrote an essay about how the canon Bolton's acts of sexual violence manifest how their aspirations for themselves, how they'd like the world to be, and how those acts and the aspirations behind them (if the show is anything to go by) are what ultimately cause their downfall. It has gone unpublished because it was inspired by Camille Paglia's Sexual Personae, and Camille Paglia is not in vogue right now, to put it kindly. It will probably stay unpublished.
> 
> I've said this before, but in the end I think Domeric is not so different from Roose and Ramsay no matter how hard he tries.
> 
> Next chapter drops November 5th/6th. We'll be in Robert's head for a while. I'm doing my best to make November 19th/20th for Chapter 51 but my family is in the middle of moving and packing has been taking a lot of my time lately. House yard white picket fence, etc. We need the space because my kid likes to RUN. Nonetheless that chapter won't go up any later than November 27th.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for supporting this story. See you all next time.


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